
GopyrigIit'N?_- 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



/ 



A TREASURY OF WAR POETRY 

Second Series 



A TREASURY OF WAR 
POETRY 

BRITISH AND AMERICAN POEMS 

OF THE WORLD WAR 

1914-1919 

SECOND SERIES 

EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, BY 

GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE 

Professor of English in the University of Tennessee 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
®bz Bitoer^ibe $re#* Cambri&ge 

1919 



O^V>>. 






COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



/.ft 



OUl 



>9 I9S9 



©GU'580883 



®o ail tWjose m\)o 
Witn for iFreeDom 






; Now let us all for the Perssy praye 

To Jhesu most of myght, 
To bryng hys sowlle to the blysse of heven, 

For he was a gentyll knyght." 

__ The Battle of Otterburn. 

" Rightly to be great 
Is not to stir without great argument, 
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw 
When honour 's at the stake." 

— William Shakespeare. 

"Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war, 
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb; 
The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands, 
And casts them out upon the darkened earth. 
Prepare, prepare!" 

— William Blake 

"O Englishmen I— in hope and creed, 

In blood and tongue our brothers! 
We too are heirs of Runny mede; 
And Shakespeare's fame and Cromwell's deed 

Are not alone our mother's. 

"'Thicker than water,' in one rill 
Through centuries of story 
Our Saxon blood has flowed, and still 
We share with you its good and ill, 
The shadow and the glory. 

"Joint neirs and kinfolk, leagues of wave 
Nor length of years can part us; 
Your right is ours to shrine and grave, 
The common freehold of the brave. 
The gifts of saints and martyrs." 

— John Greenleaf Whither 



CONTENTS 

I. AMERICA 

John Helston: "Advance, America!" .... 3 

Morley Roberts: To America 3 

O. W. Firkins: To America in War Time .... 4 

Harry Kemp: The New Ally 5 

II. ENGLAND AND AMERICA 

Maurice Hewlett: The Fourth of July, 1776 . . 9 

Percy MacKaye: Magna Carta 9 

Margaretta Byrde: America at St. Paul's . . .11 
Robert Underwood Johnson: Two Flags upon West- 
minster Towers 12 

Laurence Binyon: The New World 13 

III. ENGLAND 

C. W. Brodribb: Expeditional 19 

Sir Henry Newbolt: St. George's Day .... 20 
Lance-Corporal Francis Ledwidge: Evening in 

England 21 

C. Fox Smith: Saint George of England .... 21 

IV. SCOTLAND 

Neil Munro: Pipes in Arras 27 

Neil Munro: "Lochaber no More" 29 

Isabel Westcott Harper: Highland Night ... 30 

V. IRELAND 

Norreys Jephson O'Conor: Moira's Keening ... 33 

Winifred M. Letts: The Connaught Rangers . . 34 

VI. BELGIUM 

Helen Gray Cone: To Belgium 39 

Lieutenant Herbert Asquith : A Flemish Village . 39 



CONTENTS 



Blanche Weitbrec: A Ballade of Broken Things . . 40 

M. Forrest: The Heroes 41 

VII. FRANCE 

Hilaire Belloc: Sedan 45 

Grace Ellert Channing: Flower-Beds in the Tuileries 45 

John Finley: The Valleys of the Blue Shrouds ... 46 

Marion Couthouy Smith: Sainte Jeanne of France . 49 

VIII. ITALY 

Moray Dalton: To Italy 53 

IX. SERBIA, GREECE, AND ROUMANIA 

Lance-Corporal Francis Ledwidge: Autumn Evening 

in Serbia 57 

Florence Earle Coates: Serbia 57 

Lance-Corporal Francis Ledwidge: The Home- 
coming of the Sheep 58 

George Edward Woodberry: Roumania ... 59 

X. CANADA 

Arthur L. Phelps: Old War 63 

Bliss Carman: The War Cry of the Eagles ... 63 

XI. AUSTRALASIA 

C. Fox Smith: Farewell to Anzac 69 

Will H. Ogilvie: Queenslanders 70 

Ben Kendim: The New Zealander 71 

XII. YPRES 

Colonel Lord Gorell: Ypres . . . . . . .75 

W. S. S.Lyon: Easter at Ypres: 1915 77 

Margaret L. Woods: The First Battle of Ypres . . 78 

George Herbert Clarke: Ruins 82 

XIII. OXFORD 

Laurence Binyon: Oxford in War-Time .... 87 

Christopher Morley: To the Oxford Men in the War . 89 



CONTENTS xi 



W. Snow: The Ghosts of Oxford 90 

Mildred Huxley: Subalterns 91 

XIV. REFLECTIONS 

Thomas Hardy: In Time of "The Breaking of Nations" 95 
John Galsworthy: The Soldier Speaks .... 95 
Wilfrid "Wilson Gibson: The Ragged Stone ... 97 
Henry van Dyke : The Peaceful Warrior .... 98 
Sir A. Conan Doyle: The Guns in Sussex ... 98 

A. E.: Gods of War 100 

Kathleen Knox: A Lost Land 102 

John Drinkwater: Of Greatham 103 

Olive Tilford Dargan: 'It Will be a Hard Winter' . 105 

Patrick R. Chalmers: The Steeple 106 

L. W. : Christ in Flanders 108 

Edith Wharton: Battle Sleep 109 

Gamaliel Bradford: Napoleon 110 

Dana Burnet: Napoleon's Tomb 110 

H. H. Bashford: The Vision of Spring, 1916 . . .112 

Vachel Lindsay: Niagara 114 

John Freeman: The Stars in their Courses . . .116 
Clinton Scollard: A Summer Morning . . . .119 
Lieutenant- Colonel Sir Ronald Ross: Apocalypse . 119 

G. O. Warren: Fulfilment 122 

Guy Kendall: To my Pupils, Gone before Their Day . 123 
Theodosia Garrison: "These Shall Prevail" . .124 
Josephine Preston Peabody: Military Necessity . 125 

Everard Owen: Ypres Tower, Rye 125 

Stuart P. Sherman: Kaiser and Counsellor . . .126 
Odell Shepard: The Hidden Weaver . . . .127 

. v . .129 
. . . 132 
. . . 133 
. . . 134 



A. E.: Shadows and Lights 

Lieutenant F. W. Harvey: The Bugler 

Evelyn Underhill: Non-Combatants 

W. H. Draper: The Red Christmas . 

Sara Teasdale: "There Will Come Soft Rains" . . 135 

Ethel M. Hewitt: Bois-Etoile 136 

Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley: Going to the Front 137 



xii CONTENTS 



Louise Imogen Guiney: Despotisms 138 

John Masefield: The Choice 139 

XV. INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

F. W. Bourdillon: The Call 143 

Lieutenant William Rose Benet: Front Line . . 144 

Eden Phillpotts: In Gallipoli 145 

John Gould Fletcher: The Last Rally .... 146 
Rowland Thirlmere : Richmond Park .... 148 

Patrick R. Chalmers: Infantry 149 

Gilbert Keith Chesterton: The Ballad of St. Barbara 150 

Maud Anna Bell: From a Trench 158 

George Sterling: Henri 159 

Neil Munro: Romance 161 

Isabel Ecclestone Mackay: The Recruit . . . . 163 
John Gould Fletcher: Channel Sunset .... 164 
Maxwell Struthers Burt: Pierrot at War . . . 164 
Florence Ripley Mastin: At the Movies . . . 165 
Katharine Tynan: High Summer 166 

XVI. POETS MILITANT 

Lieutenant Rupert Brooke : Safety .... 169 

Lieutenant Rupert Brooke: Peace 169 

Lance-Corporal Francis Ledwidge: The Place . . 170 
Lance-Corporal Francis Ledwidge: Evening Clouds 171 
Captain Lord Dunsany: Songs from an Evil Wood . 171 
Captain Charles Hamilton Sorley: A Letter from the 

Trenches 175 

Flight-Commander Miles Jeffrey Game Day: To 

my Brother 178 

Sergeant Joyce Kilmer: The New School . . .180 

Sergeant Joyce Kilmer: Kings 181 

Lieutenant Robert Nichols: Comrades: An Episode 182 
Lieutenant Robert Nichols: Nearer .... 185 
Captain Siegfried Sassoon: The Troops . . . .186 
Captain Siegfried Sassoon: Trench Duty . . . 187 
Captain T. P. Cameron Wilson: Magpies in Picardy . 188 



CONTENTS xiii 



Lieutenant Frederic Manning: The Face . . . 189 
Lieutenant Frederic Manning: Relieved . . .190 
Lieutenant Frederic Manning: Transport . . . 190 
Captain James H. Knight-Adkin: Dead Man's Cot- 
tage 191 

Captain Robert Graves: The Last Post .... 193 
Lieutenant Herbert Asquith: On a Troopship, 

1915 193 

Patrick MacGill: Before the Charge . . . .194 

Patrick MacGill: In the Morning 195 

Lieutenant E. Wyndham Tennant: Reincarnation . 196 
Lieutenant E. Wyndham Tennant: Light after 

Darkness 197 

Captain Edward de Stein: To a Skylark behind our 

Trenches 198 

Lieutenant E. Armine Wodehouse: Before Ginchy . 199 
Lieutenant E. Armlne Wodehouse: Next Morning . 202 
Captain James Norman Hall: A Finger and a Huge, 

Thick Thumb 204 

Lieutenant William Noel Hodgson ("Edward Mel- 
bourne "): God's Hills 208 

Captain Gilbert Frankau : Ammunition Column . . 210 
Captain Gilbert Frankau: The Voice of the Guns . 212 
Bernard Freeman Trotter: A Kiss .... 214 
Bernard Freeman Trotter: The Poplars . . . 216 
Captain William G. Shakespeare: The Cathedral . 217 
Lieutenant-Commander E. Hilton Young: Memo- 
ries 218 

W. S. S. Lyon: Lines Written in a Fire-Trench . . .218 
Lieutenant Joseph Lee: Back to London: A Poem of 

Leave 219 

Lieutenant-Colonel W. Campbell Galbraith: Red 

Poppies in the Corn 222 

Captain W. Kersley Holmes: Horse-Bathing Parade . 223 
Lieutenant Robert Haven Schauffler: After Action 224 
Captain James Sprent : A Confession of Faith . . . 224 
Lieutenant Ronald Lewis Carton: Hereafter . . 225 



xiv CONTENTS 



XVn. KEEPING THE SEAS 

Alfred Notes: Wireless 231 

Alfred Notes: "The Vindictive" 232 

Robert Bridges: The Chivalry of the Sea . . . 234 
Sir William Watson: The Battle of the Bight . . 235 
Sir Henrt Newbolt : The Song of the Guns at Sea . 237 
Morlet Roberts: The Merchantmen .... 238 
Wilfred Campbell: Where Kitchener Sleeps . . . 240 

Katharine Ttnan: After Jutland 241 

J. Edgar Middleton: Off Heligoland .... 242 
Lieutenant-Commander N. M. F. Corbett: The 

Auxiliary Cruiser 243 

C Fox Smith: The North Sea Ground . . . .245 

Henrt Head: Destroyers 247 

Lieutenant Nowell Oxland: Outward Bound . . 248 
Cecil Roberts: Watchmen of the Night .... 250 
Norah M. Holland: Captains Adventurous . . . 251 

XVni. THE AIRMEN 

George Edward Woodberrt: To the Wingless Vic- 
tory 255 

Grace Hazard Conkling: Letter to an Aviator in 

France 256 

Duncan Campbell Scott: To a Canadian Aviator who 

Died for his Country in France ..... 259 

Florence Earle Coates: Captain Guynemer . . 260 

Captain Paul Bewsher: Searchlights .... 261 

XIX. THE WOUNDED > 

Robert Bridges: Trafalgar Square 265 

Amt Lowell: Convalescence 266 

Rowland Thirlmere: Gassed 266 

Edward Shillito: Invalided 268 

Edith M. Thomas: The Red Cross Nurse . . .269 



CONTENTS 



xv 



XX. THE FALLEN 

Sir Henry Newbolt: Hie Jacet Qui in Hoc Saeculo 

Fideliter Militavit 273 

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson: Lament 273 

Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae: In Flanders 

Fields 274 

Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae: The Anxious 

Dead 274 

John Galsworthy: Valley of the Shadow . . . 275 
Lord Crewe: A Harrow Grave in Flanders . . . 275 

John Drinkwater: Riddles, R.F.C 276 

Captain Charles Hamilton Sorley: The Dead . . 277 

Barry Pain: The Army of the Dead 277 

G. O. Warren: The Spectral Army 278 

John Jay Chapman: To a Dog 279 

Norreys Jephson O'Conor: For Francis Ledwidge . 280 

A. E.: The Last Hero 281 

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson: Rupert Brooke .... 281 

Eden Phillpotts: To Rupert Brooke 283 

Sir Owen Seaman: To the Memory of Field-Marshal 

Earl Kitchener 284 

Amelia Josephine Burr: Kitchener's March . . . 285 
George Edward Woodberry: Edith Cavell . . . 286 
Thomas Hardy: Before Marching, and After . . . 287 

W. L. Courtney: To our Dead 288 

G. E. Rees: Telling the Bees 289 

Captain A. T. Nankivell: The House of Death . . 290 
Margaret Adelaide Wilson: Gervais .... 290 
Lieutenant Sigourney Thayer: The Dead . . . 291 

Claude Houghton: To the Fallen 291 

Captain T. P. Cameron Wilson: Sportsmen in Para- 
dise 292 

A. E. Murray: The Dead 292 

Duncan Campbell Scott: To a Canadian Lad, Killed 

in the War 294 

Moray Dalton: To Some Who have Fallen . . . 294 



xvi CONTENTS 



Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick George Scott: The 



Silent Toast 

Captain W. Kersley Holmes: Fallen 
John Hogben: "Somewhere in France" 
Marjorie Wilson: To Tony ( Aged 3 ) 
Mildred Huxley: To my Godson 
Katharine Tynan: New Heaven 
Lieutenant Ronald Lewis Carton: Reveille 1 



295 
296 
297 
298 
299 
301 
302 



XXI. WOMEN AND THE WAR 

Winifred M. Letts: The Call to Arms in our Street . 305 

G. O. Warren: The Endless Army 306 

Katharine Tynan: The Mother . . \ . . .307 
Marjorie Wilson: The Devonshire Mother . . . 308 
F.^W. Bourdillon: The Heart-Cry . \ . . .310 

Margaret Widdemer: Homes 310 

Edward J. O'Brien: Song 311 

Josephine Preston Peabody: Seed-Time . . .311 
Captain Gilbert Frankau: Mother and Mate . .311 
Gabrielle Elliot: Pierrot Goes to War . . . . 312 

Katherine Hale : Grey Knitting 313 

Katharine Tynan: At Parting 314 

Beatrice W. Ravenel: Missing 314 

XXII. PEACE 

Austin Dobson: Clean Hands 319 

G. O. Warren: Peace . . 319 

Richard Le Gallienne: After the War .... 320 
Marjorie L. C. Pickthall: When it is Finished . . 321 
Eden Phillpotts: Reveille 1 322 

OCCASIONAL NOTES 323 

INDEXES . 339 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The Editor desires to express his appreciation of 
the aid rendered him by many friends and correspon- 
dents in preparing the Second Series of A Treasury 
of War Poetry. Among them he would particularly 
mention Mr. Norreys Jephson O'Conor, of Harvard 
University; Mr. Francis Parsons, of Hartford, Con- 
necticut; Miss Olympe Trabue, of Washington, D.C.; 
and Mrs. Frank F. Frantz and Mrs. William Carey 
Ross, of Knoxville, Tennessee. He is sensible also of the 
frequent assistance of the Misses Lucy E. Fay (now of 
the Carnegie Library School, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania), 
Agnes R. Williams, and Ellen A. Johnson, as Librarians 
in the University of Tennessee, and of Miss Mary U. 
Rothrock, Librarian of the Lawson-McGhee Library, 
of Knoxville. He wishes to acknowledge the courtesies 
generously extended by the following authors, au- 
thors' representatives, periodicals, and publishers in 
granting their permission for the use of the poems 
indicated, rights in which are in each case reserved by 
the owner of the copyright : — 

The Rt. Hon. H. H. Asquith, Lady Cynthia Asquith, 
and the Spectator: — "On a Troopship, 1915" and 
"A Flemish Village," by Lieutenant Herbert Asquith. 

Dr. H. H. Bashford and the Nation (London) : — 
"The Vision of Spring, 1916," from Songs out of School 
(Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, and 
Messrs. Constable & Company, London). 

Miss Maud Anna Bell and the London Times: — 
"From a Trench." 

Mr. Hilaire Belloc and the New Witness: — " Sedan." 

Lieutenant William Rose Benet and the Century 
Magazine: — "Front Line." 



xviii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Captain Paul Bewsher and the London Graphic: — 
" Searchlights," from The Bombing of Bruges (Messrs. 
Hodder & Stoughton). 

Mr. Laurence Binyon and the New York Times: — 
"The New World"; Mr. Binyon and the Atlantic 
Monthly: — "Oxford in War Time," from The New 
World (Elkin Mathews, London). 

Mr. F. W. Bourdillon: — "The Heart-Cry"; Mr. 
Bourdillon and the Spectator: — "The Call." 

Dr. Gamaliel Bradford and the Nation (New York) : 

— "Napoleon." 

Mr. Robert Bridges and the London Times: — 
"The Chivalry of the Sea" and "Trafalgar Square." 

Mr. C. W. Brodribb and the London Times: — 
"Expeditional." 

Mr. Dana Burnet and the New York Evening Sun: 

— "Napoleon's Tomb." 

Miss Amelia Josephine Burr: — "Kitchener's 
March," from Life and Living (Messrs. George H. 
Doran Company). 

Mr. Maxwell Struthers Burt and Scribner's Maga- 
zine: — "Pierrot at War." 

Miss Margaretta Byrde and the Spectator: — 
"America at St. Paul's." 

Mrs. Wilfred Campbell and The Musson Book Com- 
pany (Toronto): — "Where Kitchener Sleeps," by 
the late Wilfred Campbell. 

Mr. Bliss Carman : — "The War Cry of the Eagles," 
from The Man of the Marne, and Other Poems. 

Lieutenant Ronald Lewis Carton: — "Hereafter" 
and "Reveille," from Steel and Flowers (Elkin Ma- 
thews, London). 

Mr. Patrick R. Chalmers and Punch: — "Infantry" 
and "The Steeple." 

Mrs. Grace Ellery Channing-Stetson and the New 
York Tribune: — "Flower-Beds in the Tuileries." 

Mr. John Jay Chapman and Vanity Fair: — "To a 
Dog." 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xix 

Mr. Gilbert Keith Chesterton and the New Witness: 

— "The Ballad of St. Barbara." 

Mrs. Florence Earle Coates: — "Serbia" and 
"Captain Guynemer." 

Miss Helen Gray Cone and the New York Times: — 
"To Belgium." 

Mrs. Grace Hazard Conkling: — "Letter to an 
Aviator in France." 

Lieutenant-Commander N. M. F. Corbett and 
Land and Water: — "The Auxiliary Cruiser." 

Mr. W. L. Courtney and the Fortnightly Review: — 
"To Our Dead." 

Lord Crewe and the Harrovian: — "A Harrow 
Grave in Flanders." 

Mr. Moray Dalton and the Spectator: —"To Italy " ; 
Mr. Dalton and the West Sussex Gazette: — "To 
Some Who Have Fallen." 

Mrs. Olive Tilford Dargan and the Atlantic Monthly: 

— "'It Will Be a Hard Winter.'" 

Captain Edward de Stein and the London Times: — 
"To a Skylark behind Our Trenches," from The Poets 
in Picardy (John Murray, London). 

Mr. Austin Dobson: — "Clean Hands." 

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the London Times: — 
" The Guns in Sussex." 

Rev. W. H. Draper and the Spectator: — "The Red 
Christmas," from Poems of the Love of England (Messrs. 
Chatto & Windus). 

Mr. John Drinkwater and Messrs. Sidgwick & 
Jackson : — "Riddles, R. F. C." (the Saturday Review), 
and "Of Greatham." 

Captain Lord Dunsany and the Saturday Review: — 
"Songs from an Evil Wood." 

Miss Gabrielle Elliot and the New York Times: — 
"Pierrot Goes to War." 

Mrs. Theodosia Garrison Faulks and Good House- 
keeping: — "'These Shall Prevail.'" 



xx ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Mrs. Sara Teasdale Filsinger and Harper's Maga- 
z i ne: _ "'There Will Come Soft Rains.'" 

Dr. John H. Finley and the Yale Review: — "The 
Valleys of the Blue Shrouds." 

Professor 0. W. Firkins and the Nation (New York) : 

— "To America in War Time." 

Mr. John Gould Fletcher and the Century Magazine: 

— "The Last Rally"; Mr. Fletcher and the New 
Republic: — "Channel Sunset." 

Mrs. M. Forrest and the Spectator: — "The Heroes." 

Captain Gilbert Frankau: — "Ammunition Col- 
umn" and "The Voice of the Guns," from The Guns 
(Messrs. Chatto & Windus, London) and A Song of 
the Guns (Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company, Bos- 
ton); and "Mother and Mate," from The Other Side, 
and Other Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, New York). 

Mr. John Freeman : — "The Stars in their Courses," 
from Presage of Victory, and Other Poems of the Time 
(Messrs. Selwyn & Blount, London). 

Lieutenant-Colonel W. Campbell Galbraith and the 
Westminster Gazette: — "Red Poppies in the Corn." 

Mr. John Galsworthy and the London Chronicle: — 
"The Soldier Speaks"; Mr. Galsworthy and the 
Nation (London): — "Valley of the Shadow," from 
A Sheaf (Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, 
and William Heinemann, London). 

Mrs. John W. Garvin (Katherine Hale), the Toronto 
Globe, and William Briggs, Toronto: — "Grey Knit- 
ting." 

Lady Glenconner: — "Reincarnation" and "Light 
after Darkness," from Worple Flit, by the late Lieu- 
tenant E. Wyndham Tennant. 

Mr. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson and the Fortnightly Re- 
view: — "Rupert Brooke," from Battle, and Other 
Poems (The Macmillan Company); "Lament" and 
" The Ragged Stone," from Hill-Tracks (The Mac- 
millan Company). 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xxi 

Colonel Lord Gorell and the Contemporary Review: 

— "Ypres," from Days of Destiny (Messrs. Longmans, 
Green & Company). 

Captain Robert Graves and the Nation (London) : 

— " The Last Post," from Fairies and Fusiliers (Wil- 
liam Heinemann, London). 

Miss Louise Imogen Guiney and the Nation (New 
York) : — "Despotisms." 

Mr. Thomas Hardy and the Fortnightly Review: — 
"Before Marching, and After"; Mr. Hardy and the 
Saturday Review: — "In Time of 'the Breaking of 
Nations,'" from Moments of Vision (Messrs. Mac- 
millan & Company). 

Miss Isabel Westcott Harper and Chambers' Jour- 
nal: — "Highland Night, 1715, 1815, 1915." 

Lieutenant F. W. Harvey: — "The Bugler," from 
Gloucester Friends (Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson, 
London). 

Dr. Henry Head and the Yale Review: — "Destroy- 
ers," from Destroyers, and Other Verses (Oxford Uni- 
versity Press). 

Mr. John Helston: — "Advance, America!" 

Mr. Aubrey Herbert ("Ben Kendim") and the 
Spectator: — "The New Zealander." 

Miss Ethel M. Hewitt and Harper's Magazine: — 
"Bois Etoile." 

Mr . Maurice Hewlett :—" The Fourth of July , 1 776 . " 

Mrs. Katharine Tynan Hinkson and the New Wit- 
ness: — "High Summer"; Mrs. Hinkson and the 
Nation (London): — "New Heaven"; "After Jut- 
land," "The Mother," and "At Parting," from Late 
Songs (Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson). 

Mr. John Hogben and the Spectator: — "' Some- 
where in France.'" 

Miss Norah M. Holland: — "Captains Adventu- 
rous" (Messrs. J. M. Dent & Company, London 
and Toronto). 



XX11 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Captain W. Kersley Holmes and the Glasgow News: 

— "Fallen" and "Horse-Bathing Parade," from More 
Ballads of Field and Billet (Alexander Gardner, Paisley) . 

Mr. Claude Houghton and the New Witness: — 
"To the Fallen," from The Phantom Host (Elkin 
Mathews, London). 

Miss Mildred Huxley and the Spectator: — "Sub- 
alterns" and "To my Godson." 

Mr. Robert Underwood Johnson and the Indepen- 
dent: — "Two Flags upon Westminster Towers." 

Mr. Harry Kemp and Munsey's Magazine: — "The 
New Ally." 

Dr. Guy Kendall and the Spectator: — "To my 
Pupils, Gone before their Day," from The Call, and 
Other Poems (Messrs. Chapman & Hall). 

Captain James H. Knight-Adkin and the Spectator: 

— "Dead Man's Cottage." 

Miss Kathleen Knox and Punch: — "A Lost Land." 

Lieutenant Joseph Lee and the Spectator: — "Back 
to London: A Poem of Leave." 

Mr. Richard Le Gallienne: — "After the War." 

Miss Winifred M. Letts and the Westminster Ga- 
zette: — "The Call to Arms in our Street"; Miss Letts 
and the Yale Review: — "The Connaught Rangers." 

Mr. Vachel Lindsay: — "Niagara," from The Chi- 
nese Nightingale, and Other Poems (The Macmillan 
Company). 

Miss Amy Lowell and Scribner's Magazine: — " Con- 
valescence." 

Rev. W. T. Lyon: — "Lines Written in a Fire- 
Trench" and "Easter at Ypres, 1915," by the late 
W. S. S. Lyon, from Easter at Ypres, 1915, and Other 
Poems (Messrs. James Maclehose & Sons , Glasgow). 

Mr. Patrick MacGill: — "Before the Charge" and 
"In the Morning," from Soldier Songs (Herbert Jen- 
kins, Ltd., London, and Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Com- 
pany, New York). 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xxiii 

Mrs. Isabel Ecclestone Mackay and the Canadian 
Magazine: — "The Recruit"; Mrs. MacKay and the 
Forum: — "Killed in Action." 

Mr. Percy MacKaye: — "Magna Carta," from 
The Present Hour (The Macmillan Company). 

Lieutenant Frederic Manning: — "The Face," 
"Relieved," and "Transport," from Eidola (John 
Murrajr, London, and Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Com- 
pany, New York). 

Mrs. Josephine Preston Peabody Marks: — "Mili- 
tary Necessity" and "Seed-Time," from Harvest Moon 
(Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company). 

Mr. Edward Marsh, literary executor of the late 
Lieutenant Rupert Brooke: — "Peace" and "Safety," 
from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke (The John 
Lane Company, New York) and from 191J/., and 
Other Poems (Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson, London, 
and Messrs. McClelland & Stewart, Toronto). 

Mr. John Masefield and Contemporary Verse: " The 
Choice." 

Miss Florence Ripley Mastin and the New York 
Times: — "At the Movies," from Green Leaves (Messrs. 
James T. White & Company). 

Mrs. David McCrae and Dr. Thomas McCrae: — 
"In Flanders Fields" {Punch) and "The Anxious 
Dead" (the Spectator), from In Flanders Fields, and 
Other Poems (Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.) 

Mr. J. Edgar Middleton: — "Off Heligoland," from 
Sea-Dogs and Men-at-Arms (Messrs. G. P. Putnam's 
Sons, New York, and Messrs. McClelland & Stewart, 
Toronto) . 

Mrs. Evelyn Stuart Moore ("Evelyn Underhill ") and 
the Westminster Gazette: — "Non-Combatants," from 
Immanence (Messrs. J. M. Dent & Company, London, 
and Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Company, New York). 

Mr. Christopher Morley : — "To the Oxford Men in 
the War," from Songs for a Little House (The George 
H. Doran Company). 



xxiv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Mr. Neil Munro and Blackwood's Magazine: — 
"Romance," "Pipes in Arras," and "'Lochaber no 
More!'" 

Miss A. E. Murray and the Nation (London) : — 
"The Dead." 

Captain A. T. Nankivell and the Westminster Ga- 
zette: — "The House of Death." 

Sir Henry Newbolt: — "St. George's Day," "The 
Song of the Guns at Sea," and "Hie Jacet Qui in Hoc 
Saeculo Militavit." 

Lieutenant Robert Nichols: — "Comrades: An 
Episode," and "Nearer," from Ardours and Endurances 
(The Frederick A. Stokes Company). 

Mr. Alfred Noyes: — "Wireless" and "'The Vin- 
dictive,'" from The New Morning (The Frederick A. 
Stokes Company). 

Mr. Edward J. O'Brien and the Century Magazine: 

— "Song." 

Mr. Norreys Jephson O'Conor: — "Moira's Keen- 
ing"; Mr. O'Conor and Contemporary Verse: — "For 
Francis Ledwidge." 

Mr. Will H. Ogilvie and the Spectator: — "Queens- 
landers" (Messrs. Angus & Robertson, Ltd., Sydney, 
Australia). 

Rev. Everard Owen: — "Ypres Tower, Rye." 

Mr. Barry Pain and the Westminster Gazette: — 
"The Army of the Dead." 

Rev. Arthur L. Phelps and the Canadian Magazine: 

— "Old War." 

Mr. Eden Phillpotts : — " In Gallipoli," "To Ru- 
pert Brooke," and "Reveille," from Plain Song, 1911*- 
1916 (The Macmillan Company, New York, and 
William Heinemann, London). 

Miss Marjorie L. C. Pickthall: — "When it is 
Finished." 

Mrs. Beatrice W. Ravenel and the Atlantic Monthly: 

— "Missing." 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



XXV 



Rev. Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley: — "Going 
to the Front." 

Rev. G. E. Rees and the Westminster Gazette: — 
"Telling the Bees." 

Mr. Cecil Roberts and the Poetry Review: — "Watch- 
men of the Night." 

Mr. Morley Roberts and the Westminster Gazette: — 
"To America" and "The Merchantmen," from War 
Lyrics (Messrs. Selwyn & Blount, London). 

Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Ronald Ross and the Poetry 
Review: — "Apocalypse." 

Mr. George W. Russell (" A. E.") and the London 
Times: — "Gods of War" and "Shadows and Lights"; 
Mr. Russell and Messrs. Macmillan & Company: — 
"The Last Hero." 

Captain Siegfried Sassoon (by Lieutenant Robert 
Nichols) : — "The Troops" and "Trench Duty," from 
Counter- Attack, and Other Poems (Messrs. E. P. Dut- 
ton & Company, New York, and William Heinemann, 
London). 

Lieutenant Robert Haven Schauffler: — "After 
Action." 

Mr. Clinton Scollard: — "A Summer Morning," 
from Let the Flag Wave (Messrs. James T. White & 
Company, New York). 

Mr. Duncan Campbell Scott: — "To a Canadian 
Lad Killed in the War," from Lundy's Lane, and Other 
Poems (The George H. Doran Company, New York, 
and Messrs. McClelland & Stewart, Toronto); Mr. 
Scott and Scribner's Magazine: — "To a Canadian 
Aviator who Died for his Country in France." 

Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick George Scott : — 
"The Silent Toast" (Messrs. Constable & Company, 
London). 

Sir Owen Seaman and Punch: — "To the Memory 
of Field-Marshal Earl Kitchener." 

Captain William G. Shakespeare: — "The Cathe- 



XXVI 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



dral," from Ypres, and Other Poems. (Messrs. Sidgwick 
& Jackson, London). 

Professor Odell Shepard: — "The Hidden Weaver," 
from A Lonely Flute (Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Com- 
pany). 

Professor Stuart P. Sherman and the Nation (New 
York) : — "Kaiser and Counsellor." 

Mr. Edward Shillito and the London Chronicle: — 
"Invalided." 

Miss C. Fox Smith: — "Farewell to Anzac" (the 
Spectator) and "St. George of England," from Fighting 
Men (Elkin Mathews, London); Miss Smith and 
Punch: — "The North Sea Ground." By permission 
also of the George H. Doran Company, New York. 

Miss Marion Couthouy Smith and the Nation (New 
York) : — "Sainte Jeanne of France," from The Final 
Star (Messrs. James T. White & Company, New 
York). 

Mr. W. Snow and the Oxford Magazine: — "The 
Ghosts of Oxford." 

Professor William R. Sorley: — "A Letter from the 
Trenches" and "The Dead," by the late Captain 
Charles Hamilton Sorley, from Marlborough, and Other 
Poems (The Cambridge University Press). 

Mr. George Sterling and the Delineator: — "Henri." 

Rev. William G. Thayer and the Atlantic Monthly: 
— "The Dead," by Lieutenant Sigourney Thayer. 

Mr. Rowland Thirlmere: — "Richmond Park," 
from Diogenes at Athens, and Other Poems (Messrs. 
Selwyn & Blount, London); and "Gassed." 

Miss Edith M. Thomas and Harper's Magazine: — 
"The Red Cross Nurse." 

The late Professor Thomas Trotter: — "The Pop- 
lars," and "A Kiss," by the late Bernard Freeman 
Trotter, from A Canadian Twilight, and Other Poems 
of War and of Peace (McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 
and the George H. Doran Company, New York). 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xxvii 

Dr. Henry van Dyke and Scribner's Magazine: — 
"The Peaceful Warrior." 

Mrs. G. O. Warren: — "The Spectral Army," 
"Peace," and "The Endless Army," from Trackless 
Regions (B. H. Blackwell, Oxford, and Messrs. Long- 
mans, Green & Company, New York); Mrs. Warren 
and the Spectator: — "Fulfilment." 

Sir William Watson: — "The Battle of the Bight," 
from The Man Who Saw, and Other Poems Arising out 
of the War (John Murray, London, and Messrs. Har- 
per & Brothers, New York). 

Miss Blanche Weitbrec and the New York Times: — 
"A Ballade of Broken Things." 

Mrs. Edith Wharton, the Century Magazine, and 
Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons: — "Battle Sleep." 

Miss Margaret Widdemer: — "Homes," from The 
Old Road to Paradise (Messrs. Henry Holt & Com- 
pany). 

Mrs. Fredeline Wilson, the Westminster Gazette, and 
Mr. Harold Monro, The Poetry Bookshop, London: — 
"Magpies in Picardy" and "Sportsmen in Paradise," 
by the late Captain T. P. Cameron Wilson. 

Miss Margaret Adelaide Wilson and the Yale Re- 
view: — " Gervais." 

Miss Marjorie Wilson and the Spectator: — "To 
Tony (Aged 3)"; Miss Wilson and the Westminster 
Gazette: — " The Devonshire Mother." 

Lieutenant E. Armine Wodehouse and the Fort- 
nightly Review: — "Before Ginchy"; "Next Morn- 
ing," from On Leave (Elkin Mathews, London). 

Dr. George Edward Woodberry and the Atlantic 
Monthly: — "To the Wingless Victory"; Dr. Wood- 
berry and the North American Review: — "Rou- 
mania"; Dr. Woodberry and Scribner's Magazine: — 
"Edith Cavell." 

Mrs. Margaret L. Woods and the Fortnightly Re- 
view: — "The First Battle of Ypres." 



xxviii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Lieutenant-Commander E. Hilton Young and the 
Cornhill Magazine: — "Memories." 

The Canadian Magazine: — "Ruins," by George 
Herbert Clarke. 

The Spectator: — "Christ in Flanders," by L. W.; 
and "To my Brother," by the late Flight-Commander 
Miles Jeffrey Game Day. 

The London Times: — "Outward Bound," by the 
late Lieutenant Nowell Oxland. 

Messrs. Cassell & Company, London, and the Funk 
& Wagnalls Company, New York: — "A Confession 
of Faith," by Captain James Sprent, from The Anzac 
Book (Anzac Book Committee). 

The George H. Doran Company, New York: — 
"Kings" and "The New School," from Main Street, 
and Other Poems, by the late Sergeant Joyce Kilmer. 

Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company and the Cen- 
tury Magazine: — "A Finger and a Huge, Thick 
Thumb," by James Norman Hall. 

Herbert Jenkins, Ltd., London : — "Evening in Eng- 
land," "The Place," "Evening Clouds," "Autumn 
Evening in Serbia," and "The Homecoming of the 
Sheep," from Songs of Peace, by the late Lance- 
Corporal Francis Ledwidge, edited by Captain Lord 
Dunsany. 

John Murray and the New Witness: — "God's 
Hills," by the late Lieutenant William Noel Hodgson 
("Edward Melbourne"). 



INTRODUCTION 

The demand for a Second Series of A Treasury of 
War Poetry led the Editor, nearly a year ago, to 
attempt the task of satisfying it. 

With the close of the Great War, it has become pos- 
sible to assemble its poetic voices, and to enlarge, with 
due regard for proportion, the choir presented in the 
First Series. Lest, in preparing the new volume, he 
should overlook good work produced during the earlier 
years of the war, but, for whatever reason, not in- 
cluded in the first collection, the Editor has required 
himself to review the output of British and Ameri- 
can war poetry, so far as it has seemed available in 
periodical literature, in individual books of verse, and 
in manuscripts. The chief difficulty experienced has 
been due to the necessity of eliminating some material 
that he would willingly have retained had the scope 
of his effort permitted. 

War, adventure, the mysteries of faith, the change- 
ful aspects of Nature (whether virgin or domesticated), 
and romantic love, — about these themes, or some 
variation or interrelation of them, the poets have al- 
ways wondered and sung. From all five of them de- 
rives a sense of anticipation, of discovery, of Platonic 
reminiscence. The significance of human life, the 
riddle of its essential quality, the meaning of its dis- 
cipline, the secret of its destiny, — these questions 
challenge the poet most of all. From this vantage and 
from that he attacks them with all the imaginative 



xxx INTRODUCTION 

ardour at his command, hoping that he may some- 
where disengage a hint of latent harmony, may lessen 
in some degree the perplexities of that "boundless 
Phantasmagoria and Dream-Grotto," — our human 
life. What is a poem, then, but a spiritual impulse and 
adventure shaped and realized (in part at least) in 
words of inspiring beauty, of passionate sincerity, of 
creative insight? But since life is whole, the artistic 
interpretation of life tends progressively toward unity. 
Poetry, says a true poet, 1 "is, on the one hand, a 
spirit, animating one individual here and another 
there; on the other hand, in its outward manifesta- 
tions, it is a collection of works produced by that spirit 
working in individuals." So Shelley speaks of "that 
great poem which all poets, like the co-operating 
thoughts of one great mind, have built up since the 
beginning of the world." And Sir William Watson 
writes: — 

"... 'neath the unifying sun, 
Many the songs — but Song is one." 

In a sense, then, we do less than justice to the spirit 
of poetry when we assign its outward manifestations 
too readily to class and category, save only as the 
study of form and manner may require. The phrase 
"war poetry" is a convenient one, but war poetry, 
after all, may be as broadly comprehensive in its in- 
sights and occasions as poetry which has no relation 
to war. If it be worthy, it is the finely wrought record 
of a sympathetic reaction to the enkindling heroisms 
of war, or of an antipathetic reaction to its sorrows, its 
brutalities and its uglinesses. Nobly conceived and 

1 Sir Henry Newbolt: A New Study of English Poetry 
(Constable, London; Dutton, New York). 



INTRODUCTION xxxi 

expressed as are not a few poems written by combat- 
ants, the contention that the soldier-poet must pos- 
sess more authentic power as an interpreter of war 
than his equally endowed but non-militant fellow is, I 
think, without warrant. The history of war poetry 
does not so attest. When we respond to the epical 
struggles in Homer and Milton and Spenser, or follow 
the unfolding of the great war-pageantry of Shake- 
speare, or stir to the ringing music of the martial bal- 
lads; when we re-create for ourselves Drayton's Agin- 
court, Lovelace's incomparable lyrics to Lucasta, Col- 
lins' How Sleep the Brave, Cowper's Boadicea, Scott's 
Flodden Field and Bonny Dundee, Campbell's Hohen- 
linden, The Soldier s Dream, and The Battle of the Baltic, 
Tennyson's The Revenge, The Defence of Lucknow, and 
Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington, Browning's 
Cavalier Tunes and Herve Riel, Walt Whitman's 
Drum-Taps, or Thomas Hardy's monumental drama, 
The Dynasts; — when these veritable war poems take 
hold upon us we have no need to seal our pleasure with 
any assurance that the writers did or did not physically 
participate in conflict. The true warrior-poet is born 
a poet, but becomes a warrior, and it is even possible 
that if his actual experience in war be too long con- 
tinued it may dull and blunt that restless, inquiring, 
delicately registering organ, the poet's mind. The poet 
in the soldier, indeed, may rejoice at his experience so 
long as it offers food imaginatively convenient for him, 
but the essay at the artistic interpretation of war is, 
like all similar efforts, primarily a spiritual undertak- 
ing, conditioned rather upon qualities of personality 
than upon definite objective contacts, valuable as 
these latter may be in point of stimulus. Whether he 



xxxii INTRODUCTION 

wear uniform or mufti, the war poet must imagine 
war, and imagination, 1 Carveth Read tells us, "is not 
made of particular fact, but of infinite analogies of 
things, and of things that were never observed or 
thought of until analogy called them to life." True 
poets, as Ibsen thought, are really far-sighted, whether 
the thing that inspires them be concretely near or far. 
Undoubtedly, the artist who functions in a world at 
peace might gain much from travel, should opportu- 
nity offer, but in any case he realizes that the world is 
made up of its own miniatures, and that he who inter- 
prets in a catholic spirit the life about him interprets 
all life. So, in a war-torn world, the poet becomes sen- 
sitively aware of the dreads and longings, the prides 
and pities, engendered by war within his own interior 
spirit and within the spirits of those about him. It is 
in these that the subtler meanings and realities of war 
are most surely to be found. 

Two points of difference, however, between the mili- 
tant and the non-militant war poet are sometimes ap- 
preciable. The fighting poet seems seldom to display 
a spirit of personal hatred toward the enemy, but ap- 
parently reserves his hatred for the impersonal Wrong 
for whose sake the enemy fights. This tendency is well 
illustrated by Lieutenant Joseph Lee's German Pris- 
oners; the late Captain Charles Hamilton Sorley's son- 
net, To Germany; Corporal Alexander Robertson's 
" Thou Shalt Love Thine Enemies," and James Norman 

1 Carveth Read: The Function of Relations in Thought (The 
British Journal of Psychology, December, 1911). 

Cf. the graphic story, The Red Badge of Courage, by 
Stephen Crane, written before he had experienced war at 
first-hand. 



INTRODUCTION xxxiii 



Hall's Out of Flanders. And again, the poet at the 
front, unless he be a determined Realist, often turns 
impatiently away from the attempt to represent actual 
warfare, and tries instead to visualize some emotional 
antidote. As Lord Crewe x has discerningly said, "it 
seems that the soldier who is also a writer is as likely 
to set his mind on green fields and spring flowers as on 
the bloody drama in which he is an actor, and to tune 
his lyre accordingly. ... So that among the verse 
written by soldiers in this war it is not surprising to 
find as many poems recalling loves of home and mem- 
ories of country days as proclaiming the delight of 
battle, or even the loftier summons of patriotism and 
duty. Some of this work of to-day, as we all know, 
transcends the lyrical faculty which is the frequent 
appanage of youth, and reaches the level of true poetry; 
some of it is made sacred by the death of the writer, 
and cannot be coldly weighed in the balance." 

Whether or not, then, he be privileged to see war 
with the eye of sense, and to share its rigours and ar- 
dours with fellow-soldiers, the first duty of the war- 
poet toward his art is to be a poet, to discover the time- 
less and placeless in the momentary and parochial, 
and to bring back to us a true and moving report of the 
experience and behaviour of the human spirit during 
its recurrent struggles with its own worser self. If he 
be on active service, the poet will, like Archilochus, the 
more loyally render unto Ares the things that are 
Ares' because he continues to offer unto Apollo the 
things that are Apollo's. If he be involved in other 
than the military activities of war, he may have even 

1 The Marquess of Crewe: War and English Poetry (The 
English Association). 



xxxiv INTRODUCTION 

the greater need to preach to himself as to his readers 
the gospel of Art, and to carry his priesthood pure 
through moments of civic dejection or gusty passion. 
In either case, it will be his ultimate desire as a poet to 
develop and express (even though indirectly) a poet's 
philosophy of war. And his philosophy will be both 
stern and kind, both just and magnanimous. He will 
not quarrel about professional or political attitudes 
toward war. He will not quarrel about attitudes at all. 
He will see war now as a great and gallant adventure; 
now as an inevitable molecular movement; now as the 
abomination of desolation; now, perhaps, as Rowland 
Thirlmere sees it in Nocturne : — 

"O silent heavens, where infinite kings abide, 
What wars impassion the invisible spheres 
That people you? What unimagined fears 
Possess their habitants? Does excessive pride 
Move them in cheerful hosts to fratricide? 
Beyond the eternal hope of earth, do tears 
Fall, as the unavenged widow peers 
Into the night with prayer unsatisfied? 

" Gods against gods may war in agony, — 
Sovereignties against sovereignties disperse 
Their lightnings in unending enmity 

Of good and ill, — and they whose thoughts accurse 
Our world, perchance fight now vicariously 
For secret princes of the universe." 

Sometimes war will seem to the poet, despite its evils, 
to offer an ennobling spiritual enfranchisement in the 
face of danger and death, to encourage the soul to 
renounce the petty timidities and cautions to which 
the prosaic life of getting on in the world teaches men 
to conform. Sometimes he will persuade himself that 
war is, in its essence, merely the noun that corresponds 



INTRODUCTION xxxv 

to the adjective dynamic, that it means effort, ad- 
venture, burden, growth, struggle, work, indeed the 
maintenance and development of one's being, that 
it includes every expression of ideas in the service of 
knowledge and wisdom, and that it is in this sense 
an inalienable condition of existence. And sometimes 
he will curse the very thought of war as he sees it over- 
sweep all humanity's painful safeguards, attacking the 
Ariel of man's hopes to make room for his enemy Cali- 
ban, brazenly emerging like an international Mr. Hyde 
from a too trustful Dr. Jekyll, and " reeling back into 
the beast." 

Thus he will be striking balances in mood and ver- 
dict, while the seemingly insoluble realities behind 
these conflicting thoughts continue to impinge upon 
one another. It is natural enough, therefore, that the 
long debate between Romanticism and Realism in art 
should have affected war poetry. The partisans of the 
work of Robert Nichols, Frederic Manning, and the 
later Siegfried Sassoon, and of Gilbert Frankau's grimly 
impatient protest, The Other Side, will find little in com- 
mon with those who turn habitually to Rupert Brooke, 
Alan Seeger, Francis Ledwidge, or Laurence Binyon. 
But poetry is a more flexible thing than are the minds 
of either its creators or its critics, who so often allow 
their temperamental differences to harden into creeds 
and dicta. Between Realist and Romanticist there is 
no radical, permanent cleavage. Both are aware that 
the world is made up of multiple symbols (for even 
the Realist's fact l is the symbol of an idea) ; both 

1 "Beauty to her, as to all who have felt, lies not in the 
thing, but in what the thing symbolizes." — Thomas Hardy: 
Tess of the U Urbervilles. 



xxxvi INTRODUCTION 

select for artistic patterning such symbols as attract 
their respective imaginations. Realistic closeness to 
fact does not, if it be wise, aim at mere objective copy- 
ism, but rather at the precipitation of the bald fact's 
subjective values, while the Romantic singling out of 
the exceptional as against the commonplace is due 
merely to the belief that the exceptional (precisely 
because it is exceptional) is of more symbolic worth 
than the commonplace. The art that is broad enough 
to include the whispered assonances of Poe, the cryptic 
chants of Emerson, the flooding harmonies of Shelley, 
the dreamy magic of Keats and of Coleridge, the subtle 
appraisements of Browning, and the marrowy tales of 
Masefield, can reject neither the bare, hard fact of the 
Realist nor the "sleep and forgetting" of the Roman- 
ticist, provided only that the offering be beautiful in 
spirit and in truth. Idealistic Realism is as natural as 
idealistic Romanticism. The difference is one of vary- 
ing preference and emphasis in the choice and treat- 
ment of material. The same poet, it is apparent, may 
write, with equal success and sincerity, now in one 
mode, now in another; only he must make sure that 
fact-symbol and fancy-symbol are in each case pre- 
scribed by his imagination, and that the focus of his 
vision does not suffer distortion. Although Roman- 
ticism must continue to offer to the coming poet the 
most grateful means of escaping sufficiently from the 
physical world to observe its phenomena with the 
wholesome perspective of Art, yet he will readily adopt 
the realistic method where it is indicated by the scale 
and intention of his work. He may even synthetically 
employ "romantic realism" (to use Arthur Symons' 
phrase), as Browning did in Childe Roland to the Dark 



INTRODUCTION xxxvii 

Tower Came. The more creative the poet, indeed, the 
more difficult it must prove to " place " and confine him. 
He will care less for the defence of mere institutional- 
ism in poetics, less for theory and experimentation — 
even his own necessary theory and experimentation — 
than for the patient worship and service of that Truth 
which "Art remains the oneway possible" of discover- 
ing, — that true Truth, that essential Truth, which 
Mrs. Browning so thoughtfully opposes to 

"... relative, comparative, 
And temporal truths." 

In the poems that follow, the receptive reader will 
find many suggestions, finely and sensitively ex- 
pressed, of the essential truth of War, and of the spir- 
itual reciprocities between our personal lives and our 
national and international struggles. 

G. H. C. 

April, 1919 



AMERICA 



"ADVANCE, AMERICA!" 

In winds that leave man's spirit cold 

And a great darkness overhead, 

They stood — bloodstained with ghostly red. 

Too young, too many far, they seemed, 

To be so soon, so grimly, dead, — 

Night more than mortal night, to hold 

All they had dreamed. . . . 

They were so many; and so young, they seemed. 

i "Halt ! Who goes there ? " 
The red ghosts on their beat of air 
Night-answered were: the word was, " Friend!" 
And as before their life had end, 
The sentinels who erstwhile halted Death, 
And died for it, a host of young men slain, 
In their red harness stood on guard again 
And shouted with recovered lease of breath — 
So that, and even as a thing surprised, 
The dread winds failed, to silence fell — 

" Advance, friend, and be recognized! " 

"Pass, friend! " and yet again, "All 's well! " 
Then as men turning restwards out of pain, 

"Pass, friend!" and now more faintly still, 
"All's well!" 

John Helston 

TO AMERICA 

Whatever penman wrote or orator 

Declaimed, I could not, for the soul of -me, 
Deem that the West had lost of liberty 

All but the name, and feared the sounds of War: 



4 AMERICA 



Of them and theirs I was not ignorant, nor 
Had failed to learn what impulse set them free 
When alien kings held England's realm in fee, 

And what, in conquering, they had battled for. 

Kinsmen ! I see, in these dark pregnant hours 

Of shadow, when the heavens are overcast 
With smoke of ruined fanes and ancient towers, 
While throttled peoples yield and nations die, 
The morning star of vengeance shine at last, 
And hear your armies thundering prophecy. 

Morley Roberts 



TO AMERICA IN WAR TIME 



Grave hour and solemn choice — bare is the 
sword. 
From the raised altar, kneeling, take the blade. 
Be its grasp eucharist and accolade; 
High be, and holy, lest thou creep abhorred. 
Bethink thee — to the angel of the Lord 
None baser, was the slayer's right conveyed: 
Of thine own soul, no other's, be afraid; 
The hilts of brands are lethal, and have scored 
On palms once white the unhealing scar of crime. 
Honor with fortune, purity with weal, 

Hang trembling in the wind-blown scale of 
Mars: 
Earth is thy judge; the listening deeps of time 
Are witness, and yon azure's probing wheel, 
And vigils of inexorable stars. 



THE NEW ALLY 



II 

"Be thou but true" — old words which years renew — 
Nor suffer blood-gout nor flame's darkling glow __ 
To touch thy heart's inviolable snow. 

Go as a nun through bordels. Be thou true! 

Let the sun's glance, even as on rose and dew, 
Rest on thy sabre. Wraths and greeds forego 
Lest skies pale, and thy recreancy know, 

Too late, yon cope's estranged, receding blue. 

Nor clamp free tongues ! Hast thou yet steel to spare 
For fetters? Does the sword-arm clank the chain? 

Be strong to conquer, mighty to forbear; 

Bind us, ay, bind us — but with prayer and pain, 

With greatening purpose, till new love, set free — 

£<ove that we dreamt not, dared not — soar to thee! 

0. W. Firkins 

*THE NEW ALLY 

Their great gray ships go plunging forth; 
The waves, wind-wakened from the north, 
Swarm up their bows and fall away, 
And wash the air with golden spray. 

Far off is flung their battle-line; 
Far off their great guns flame and shine; 
And we are one with them — we rise 
With dawning thunder in our eyes 
To join the embattled hosts that kept 
Their pact with freedom while we slept ! 

Harry Kemp 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776 

When England's king put English to the horn, 1 
To England thus spake England over sea, 
"In peace be friend, in war my enemy"; 

Then countering pride with pride, and lies with scorn, 

Broke with the man whose ancestor 2 had borne 
A sharper pain for no more injury. 
How otherwise should freemen deal and be,__ 

With patience frayed and loyalty outworn? 

No act of England's shone more generous gules 
Than that which sever' d once for all the strands 
Which bound you English. You may search the 
lands 
In vain, and vainly rummage in the schools 
To find a deed more English, or a shame 
On England with more honour to her name. 

Maurice Hewlett 

MAGNA CARTA 

Magna Carta! Magna Carta! 
English brothers, we have borne it 
On our banners down the ages. — 
Who shall scorn it? 
Bitter fought-for, blood-emblazoned 
With the fadeless gules of freedom, 
Interbound with precious pages — 

1 To "put to the horn" was to declare an outlawry^ 

2 Charles the First. _ 



10 ENGLAND AND AMERICA 

English brothers, we who shrine it 

In our common heart of hearts, 

Think you we can see a monarch, 

Tyrant-sceptred, sanguine-shod, 

Seek to rend it and malign it: 

We whose sires made him sign it — 

Him who deemed him next to God! 

We who dreamed our world forever 

Purged and rid 

Of his spectre — think you, brothers, 

We can watch this ghost, resurgent, 

Sweep his servile hordes toward England, 

And stand silent? — God forbid! 

Magna Carta! Magna Carta! 

Brother freemen, we who bear it 

Starward — shall we see him tear it? 

Fool or frantic, 

Let him dare it! 

If he reach across the Channel 

He shall touch across the Atlantic: — 

Scrolled with new and olden annal, 

Bitter fought-for, blood-emblazoned 

With the fadeless gules of freedom, 

We will hand him — Magna Carta ! 

Yea, once more shall make him sign it 

Where the centuries refine it, 

Till his serfs, who now malign it, 

Are made sick of him, and free 

Even as we. 

So, if ghostly through the sea-mist, 

You behold his Mediaeval 

Falcon face peer violating — 



AMERICA AT ST. PAUL'S 11 

Lo, with quills and Magna Carta 
(Sharpened quills and Magna Carta) 
In a little mead near London, 
English brothers, we are waiting! 

Percy MacKaye 

(From The Present Hour. Copyright, 1918, by The Macmillan Company.] 

AMERICA AT ST. PAUL'S 

Destiny knocked at the door — 

"O men of the wilderness, speak! 
Will you walk on the plain as of yore 

Or climb to the peak?" 

They replied — "Be the summit our goal, 
For the Curse lieth dead at our feet; 

Now free, body, spirit and soul, 
Men shall see us complete!" 

Came Destiny, flaming with wrath — 
"Is the Curse, then, so deep in its grave? 

The old world has straightened its path, 
But you — you enslave." 

Then they rose, hot with anger and shame; 

The land was ensanguined and torn; 
But out of the anguish and flame 

True freedom was born. 

Once again came the knock : came the call — 
"Lo, the Curse is incarnate at last, 

And Freedom must win or must fall! 
The die has been cast. 



n ENGLAND AND AMERICA 

"To her rescue, or yours is the loss, 
If you bide here alone on the height, 
And take not the fiery cross 
And join in the fight ! 

"See, they suffer for what you avow: 

See, they die for your watchwords, your creed! 
Come down, lest your records tell how 
You failed Freedom in need!" 

They gazed from their peak with surprise 
At the nations at grips with the foe, 

That look of resolve in their eyes 
Which was theirs, long ago. 

With a throb of the heart for their kin, 
With a grasp of the hand for their friend, 

They cried: "Let us in, let us in! 
We are yours to the end! 

"Here stand we: naught else can we do! 
Take us, all that we have, all we are! 
We bide by the issue with you, 
And this is our war ! " 

Margaretta Byrde 

TWO FLAGS UPON WESTMINSTER TOWERS 

April 20, 1917 

"This day is holy" — so sweet Spenser wrote, 
Giving to Love the world's one bridal-song. 
Ah ! could he see these flags together float 
Where the gray pinnacles of England throng, 



THE NEW WORLD 13 

What bridal-song of nations would he sing! 

How Shakespeare — through whose pageantry of 
state 
Trumpets of Freedom and of Justice ring — 

Our "true minds' marriage" now would celebrate! 
My country's poets, foes of tyranny, 

For great and generous England raise your voice; 
Be yours the apocalypse of Liberty — 

A vision that shall call us to rejoice. 
Divine the omens of the glorious years 
From these free flags — if you can see for tears ! 

Robert Underwood Johnson 

THE NEW WORLD 

To the People of the United States 

Now is the time of the splendour of Youth and Death. 

The spirit of man grows grander than men knew. 

The unbearable burden is borne, the impossible done; 

Though harder is yet to do 

Before this agony end, and that be won 

We seek through blinding battle, in choking breath, — 

The New World, seen in vision! Land of lands, 

In the midst of storms that desolate and divide, 

In the hour of the breaking heart, O far-descried, 

You build our courage, you hold up our hands. 

Men of America, you that march to-day 
Through roaring London, supple and lean of limb, 
Glimpsed in the crowd I saw you, and in your eye 
Something alert and grim, 

As knowing on what stern call you march away 
To the wrestle of nations; saw your heads held high 



14 ENGLAND AND AMERICA 

And, that same moment, far in a glittering beam 
High over old and storied Westminster 
The Stars and Stripes with England's flag astir, 
Sisterly twined and proud on the air astream. 

Men of America, what do you see? Is it old 
Towers of fame and grandeur time-resigned? 
The frost of custom's backward-gazing thought? 
Seek closer! You shall find ' 
Miracles hour by hour in silence wrought; 
Births, and awakenings; dyings never tolled; 
Invisible crumble and fall of prison-bars. 
O, wheresoever his home, new or decayed, 
Man is older than all the things he has made 
And yet the youngest spirit beneath the stars. 

Rock-cradled, white, and soaring out of the sea, 
I behold again the fabulous city arise, 
Manhattan! Queen of thronged and xestless bays 
And of daring ships is she. 

lands beyond, that into the sunset gaze, 
Limitless, teeming continent of surmise! 

1 drink again that diamond air, I thrill 

To the lure of a wonder more than the wondrous past, 
And see before me ages yet more vast 
Rising, to challenge heart and mind and will. 

What sailed they out to seek, who of old came 
To that bare earth and wild, unhistoried coast? 
Not gold, nor granaries, nay, nor a halcyon ease 
For the weary and tempest-tost: 
The unshaken soul they sought, possessed in peace. 
What seek we now, and hazard all on the aim? 



THE NEW WORLD 15 

In the heart of man is the undiscovered earth 
Whose hope's our compass; sweet with glorious passion 
Of men's goodwill; a world to forge and fashion 
Worthy the things we have seen and brought to birth. 

Taps of the Drum! Now once again they beat: 

And the answer comes; a continent arms. Dread, 

Pity, and Grief, there is no escape. The call 

Is the call of the risen Dead. 

Terrible year of the nations' trampling feet! 

An angel has blown his trumpet over all 

From the ends of the earth, from East to uttermost 

West, 
Because of the soul of man, that shall not fail, 
That will not make refusal, or turn, or quail, 
No, nor for all calamity, stay its quest. 

And here, here too, is the New World, born of pain 

In destiny-spelling hours. The old world breaks 

Its mould, and life runs fierce and fluid, a stream 

That floods, dissolves, re-makes. 

Each pregnant moment, charged to its extreme, 

Quickens unending future, and all's vain 

But the onward mind, that dares the oncoming years 

And takes their storm, a master. Life shall then 

Transfigure Time with yet more marvellous men. 

Hail to the sunrise! Hail to the Pioneers! 

Laurence Binyon 



ENGLAND 



/ EXPEDITIONAL 

Troops to our England true 

Faring to Flanders, 
God be with all of you 

And your commanders. 

Clear be the sky o'erhead, 

Light be the landing: 
Not till the work is sped 

Be your disbanding. 

On the old battle-ground 
Where fought your fathers, 

Faithful shall ye be found 
When the storm gathers. 

Fending a little friend 
Weak but unshaken — 

Quick! there's no time to spend 
Or the fort's taken. 

Though he defy his foes, 

He may go under. 
Quick! ere the battle close 

Speed with your thunder. 

He hath his all at stake: 
More can have no man. 

Quick! ere the barrier break 
On to the foeman. 



20 ENGLAND 



Troops to this England true 

And your commanders, 
God be with all of you 

Fighting in Flanders. 

C. W. Brodribb 



ST. GEORGE'S DAY 

Ypres, 1915 

To fill the gap, to bear the brunt 
With bayonet and with spade, 

Four hundred to a four-mile front 
Unbacked and undismayed — 

What men are these, of what great race, 
From what old shire or town, 

That run with such goodwill to face 
Death on a Flemish down? 

Let be I they bind a broken line: 

As men die, so die they. 
Land of the free ! their life was thine, 

It is St. George's Day. 

Yet say whose ardour bids them stand 

At bay by yonder bank, 
Where a boy's voice and a boy's hand 

Close up the quivering rank, 
Who under those all-shattering skies 

Plays out his captain's part 
With the last darkness in his eyes 

And Domum in his heart? 



SAINT GEORGE OF ENGLAND 21 

Let be, let be ! in yonder line 

All names are burned away. 
Land of his love I the fame be thine. 

It is St. George's Day. 

Henry Newbolt 

EVENING IN ENGLAND 

From its blue vase the rose of evening drops. 

Upon the streams its petals float away. 

The hills all blue with distance hide their tops 

In the dim silence falling on the grey. 

A little wind said "Hush!" and shook a spray 

Heavy with May's white crop of opening bloom, 

A silent bat went dipping up the gloom. 

Night tells her rosary of stars full soon, 

They drop from out her dark hand to her knees. 

Upon a silhouette of woods the moon 

Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease 

From all her changes which have stirred the seas. 

Across the ears of Toil Rest throws her Veil, 

I and a marsh bird only make a wail. 

v Francis Ledwidge 

SAINT GEORGE OF ENGLAND 

Saint George he was a fighting man, as all the tales 
do tell; 

He fought a battle long ago, and fought it wondrous well. 

With his helmet, and his hauberk, and his good cross- 
hilt ed sword, 

Oh, he rode a-slaying dragons to the glory of the Lord. 



ENGLAND 



And when his time on earth was done, he found he 

could not rest 
Where the year is always summer in the Islands of the 

Blest; 
So back he came to earth again, to see what he could 

do, 
And they cradled him in England — 

In England, April England — 
Oh, they cradled him in England where the golden 

willows blew! 

Saint George he was a fighting man, and loved a 

fighting breed, 
And whenever England wants him now, he's ready at 

her need; 
From Crecy field to Neuve Chapelle he's there with 

hand and sword, 
And he sailed with Drake from Devon to the glory of 

the Lord. 
His arm is strong to smite the wrong and break the 

tyrant's pride, 
He was there when Nelson triumphed, he was there 

when Gordon died; 
He sees his red-cross ensign float on all the winds that 

blow, 
But ah! his heart's in England — 

In England, April England — 
Oh, his heart it turns to England where the golden 

willows grow. 

Saint George he was a fighting man, he's here and 

fighting still 
While any wrong is yet to right or Dragon yet to kill, 



SAINT GEORGE OF ENGLAND 23 

And faith! he's finding work this day to suit his war- 
worn sword, 

For he's strafing Huns in Flanders to the glory of the 
Lord. 

Saint George he is a fighting man, but when the fight- 
ing's past, 

And dead among the trampled fields the fiercest and 
the last 

Of all the Dragons earth has known beneath his feet 
lies low, 

Oh, his heart will turn to England — 

To England, April England — 

He '11 come home to rest in England where the golden 
willows blow! 

C. Fox Smith 

[Copyright by George H. Doran Company, 1919.] 



SCOTLAND 



" PIPES IN ARRAS 
(April, 1917) 

In the burgh toun of Arras 
When gloaming had come on, 

Fifty pipers played Retreat 
As if they had been one, 

And the Grande Place of Arras 

Hummed with the Highland drone! 

Then to the ravaged burgh, 
Champed into dust and sand, 

Came with the pipers' playing, 
Out of their own loved land, 

Sea-sounds that moan for sorrow 
On a dispeopled strand. 

There are in France no voices 
To speak of simple things, 

And tell how winds will whistle 
Through palaces of kings; 

Now came the truth to Arras 
In the chanter's warblings : 

"O build in pride your towers, 
But think not they will last; 

The tall tower and the shealing 
Alike must meet the blast, 

And the world is strewn with shingle 
From dwellings of the past." 



28 SCOTLAND 



But to the Grande Place, Arras, 

Came, too, the hum of bees, 
That suck the sea-pink's sweetness 

From isles of the Hebrides, 
And in Iona fashion 

Homes mid old effigies: 

"Our cells the monks demolished 
To make their mead of yore, 

And still though we be ravished 
Each Autumn of our store, 

While the sun lasts, and the flower, 
Tireless we'll gather more." 

Up then and spake with twitt'rings 

Out of the chanter reed, 
Birds that each Spring to Appin, 

Over the oceans speed, 
And in its ruined castles 

Make love again and breed: 

"Already see our brothers 

Build in the tottering fane! 
Though France should be a desert, 

While love and Spring remain, 
Men will come back to Arras, 

And build and weave again." 

So played the pipes in Arras 

Their Gaelic symphony, 
Sweet with old wisdom gathered 

In isles of the Highland sea, 
And eastward towards Cambrai, 

Roared the artillery. 

Neil Munro 



LOCHABER NO MORE! 29 

"LOCHABER NO MORE!" 

Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to the glen, 

No more will lie wander Lochaber again. 
Lochaber no more! Lochaber no more! 

The lad will return to Lochaber no more! 
The trout will come back from the deeps of the sea, 

The bird from the wilderness back to the tree, 
Flowers to the mountain and tides to the shore, 

But he will return to Lochaber no more! 

O why should the hills last, that never were young, 

Unperishing stars in the heavens be hung; 
Be constant the seasons, undrying the stream, 

And he that was gallant be gone like a dream? 
Brave songs will be singing in isles of the West, 

But he will be silent who sang them the best; 
The dance will be waiting, the pipes will implore, 

But he will return to Lochaber no more! 

Child of the forest! profound is thy sleep, 

The valley that loved thee awakes but to weep; 
When our fires are rekindled at dawn of the morn, 

Our griefs burn afresh, and our prayers are forlorn; 
The night falls disconsolate, bringing no peace, 

No hope for our dreams, for our sighs no release; 
In vain come the true hearts and look from the door, 

For thou wilt return to Lochaber no more ! 

Neil Munro 



30 SCOTLAND 



HIGHLAND NIGHT 
1715-1815-1915 

O tuen ye homeward in the night-tide dusk! 
Return, O lad, across the watery dark. 

The wind is eerie, and the sea growls low, 
And voices mutter in the caves. O hark! 

The sea-bird hath her mate, but none I know. 

All day the gulls are crying round the rocks, 
And spray is leaping white against their face; 

The child is shouting, and the wind is sweet; 
Above our heads the flying cloudlets race, 

Where we are on the hillside cutting peat. 

The sun glints on the waves. I have no fear; 
My heart is filled with ancient battle songs; 
But when the winter seas are crying loud, 
Phantoms of eld, and marching faery throngs, 
From strange old tales into my fancy crowd. 

They hold before my eyes a bloody plaid — 
A wail of warning hurries down the gust, 

The door blows open, and the baby cries, 
And dark-red drops are trickling in the dust. 

Kneeling I fall and cover up my eyes. 

O turn ye homeward in the night-tide dusk! 
The door stands open, and the sea growls low. 

Ah, lad, my candle shines across the night. 
The sea-bird hath her mate, but none I know; 
Turn ye to me before the morning light. 

Isabel Westcott Harper 



IRELAND 



MOIRA'S KEENING 

O mountains of Erin, 
Your beauty is fled; 
Beyond you, in Flanders, 
My darling lies dead. 

Through the dunes and the grasses 
Bespattered with blood, 
They bore him; and round him, 
Bareheaded, they stood, 

While the chaplain in khaki 
Was reading a prayer, 
And the wind for his keening 
Was moaning an air. 

O son of grey Connaught, 
No more shall we stand 
By the dark lough at evening, 
My hand in your hand, 

And talk of a houseen 
To hold you and me, 
The scent of the heather, 
The gorse on the lea. 

Yet, bridegroom of mine, 
You are waiting afar, 
Past the peak and the blueness, 
The shine of thon star, 



34 IRELAND 



Where Mary the Mother 
Is bending her head, 
And you sleep at her crooning, 
O boy of mine! dead. 

Norreys Jephson 0' Conor 

THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS 

I saw the Connaught Rangers when they were passing 

by, 
On a spring day, a good day, with gold rifts in the sky. 
Themselves were marching steadily along the Liffey 

quay 
An' I see the young proud look of them as if it was 

to-day! 
The bright lads, the right lads, I have them in my 

mind, 
With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in 

the wind! 

A last look at old Ireland, a last good-bye maybe, 
Then the gray sea, the wide sea, my grief upon the sea ! 
And when will they come home, says I, when will they 

see once more 
The dear blue hills of Wicklow and Wexford's dim 

gray shore? 
The brave lads of Ireland, no better lads you '11 find, 
With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in 

the wind! 

Three years have passed since that spring day, sad 

years for them and me. 
Green graves there are in Serbia and in Gallipoli. 



THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS 35 

And many who went by that day along the muddy 

street 
Will never hear the roadway ring to their triumphant 

feet. 
But when they march before Him, God's welcome will 

be kind, 
And the green flags on their bayonets will flutter in the 

wind. 

Winifred M. Letts 



BELGIUM 



TO BELGIUM 

Crowned with Thorns 

Thou that a brave brief space didst keep the gate, 
Against the German, saving all the West, 
By the subjection of thy shielding breast 

To the brute blows and utmost shames of Fate; 

Thou that in bonds of iron dost expiate 

Thy nobleness as crime ! Even thus oppressed, 
Is not thy spirit mystically blest, 

O little Belgium, marvellously great? 

Thou that hast prized the soul above the flesh, 
Dost thou not, starving, eat of angels' bread? 
With every sunrise crucified afresh, 

Has not this guerdon for all time sufficed — 
That thou shouldst wear upon thy haggard head 
The awful honor of the Crown of Christ? 

Helen Gray Cone 

A FLEMISH VILLAGE *"" 

Gone is the spire that slept for centuries, 
Whose image in the water, calm, and low 
Was mingled with the lilies green and snow, 
And lost itself in river mysteries. 
The church lies broken near the fallen spire; 
For here, among these old and human things, 
Death swept along the street with feet of fire, 
And went upon his way with moaning wings. 



40 BELGIUM 

Above the cluster of these homes forlorn, 
Where giant fleeces of the shells are rolled, 
O'er pavements by the kneeling herdsmen worn, 
The wounded saints look out to see their fold. 

And silence follows fast, no evening peace, 
But leaden stillness, when the thunder wanes, 
Haunting the slender branches of the trees, 
And settling low upon the listless plains. 

Herbert Asquith 

A BALLADE OF BROKEN THINGS 

The toy no skilful fingers may repair 
Is dearer far in tearful childish eyes 
Than all remaining treasures whole and fair, 
For here is tragedy that beautifies. 
The broken doll assumes heroic guise — 
Is aureoled, and wears an angel's wings: 
The saints must die before we canonize — 
The* broken things are the immortal things! 

Yea, shattered gods the heart of man ensnare; 
'T is the scarred loveliness we praise and prize; 
To wreck and ruin fealty we swear — 
How near one's soul the Coliseum lies ! 
And see, ere straining flight may scale the skies. 
Ere she may know her life's true wakenings, 
From ashes must the fabled bird arise — 
The broken things are the immortal things! 

Ruin and dust and ashes of despair — 

On these we build our shrines, and here our cries 



THE HEROES 41 

Of adoration and exalted prayer, 

Ascending like the smoke of sacrifice, 

Halo waste lands and homes. On dying sighs 

Are w,af ted seeds of perfect flowerings : 

The Christ accepted death, and He was wise — 

The broken things are the immortal things! 

l'envoi 

O Belgium! there is victory that dies, 
Power that undermines the thrones of kings; 
Fear not defeat; disaster glorifies; — 
The broken things are the immortal things! 

Blanche Weitbrec 

v THE HEROES 

In that Valhalla where the heroes go 

A careful sentinel paced to and fro 

Before the gate, 1 burnt black with battle smoke, 

Whose echoes to the tread of armed men woke, 

And up the fiery stairs whose steps are spears 

Came the pale heroes of the bloodstained years. 

There were lean Caesars from the glory fields 

With heart that only to a sword-thrust yields; 

And there were Generals decked in pride of rank, 

Red scabbard swinging from the weary flank; 

And slender youths, who were the sons of kings, 

And barons with their sixteen quarterings. 

And while the nobles went with haughty air 

The courteous sentinel questioned: " Who goes there?" 

And as each came, full lustily he cried 

His string of titles, ere he passed inside. . . . 



42 BELGIUM 



And presently there was a little man, 

A silent mover in the regal van. 

His hand still grasped his rifle, and his eyes 

Seemed blinded with the light from Paradise. . . . 

His was a humble guise, a modest air — 

The sentinel held him sharply: "Who goes there?" 

There were no gauds tacked to that simple name, 
But every naked blade leapt out like flame, 
And every blue-blood warrior bowed his head — 
"I am a Belgian," this was all he said. 
Men's cheering echoed thro' the battle's Hell 
"Pass in, mon brave/' said that wise sentinel. 

M. Forrest 
Brisbane, Queensland 



FRANCE 



SEDAN 

I, from a window where the Meuse is wide, 

Looked Eastward, out to the September night. 
The men that in the hopeless battle died 

Rose and re-formed and marshalled for the fight. 
A brumal army vague and ordered large 

For mile on mile by one pale General, 
I saw them lean by companies to the charge; 

But no man living heard the bugle call. 

And fading still, and pointing to their scars, 

They rose in lessening cloud where, gray and high, 

Dawn lay along the Heaven in misty bars. 
But, gazing from that Eastern casement, I 
Saw the Republic splendid in the sky, 

And round her terrible head the morning stars. 

Hilaire Belloc 

FLOWER-BEDS IN THE TUILERIES 

France is planting her gardens, 
France is preparing her spring: 
Seeds in their long rows slumbering, 
Bulbs in their ranks outnumbering, 
For the brown beds' bordering; 
France is planting her gardens, 
France is preparing her spring, 
France — of the ermined lilies, 
France — of the Fleur-de-Lys; 
And royal still her will is, 
Say the stately Tuileries. 



46 FRANCE 



Her crippled and maimed and broken 
Walk, smiling, in her sun; 
These are they who have spoken 
Her word by the lips of Verdun; 
Their little, gay children go leaping — 
Laugh loud from the merry-go-round; 
France has sown, for their reaping, 
The flowers of France that are sleeping 
Near by, in the warm, brown ground. 

France has planted her Garden, 

France has prepared her a Spring, 

All mankind for its warden, 

Love for its singing bird; 

Never the frost shall harden 

Earth that has in its keeping 

Seed sown there at her word, 

Never the birds take wing; 

Where the flower of France is sleeping 

That earth shall have her spring! 

Grace Ellery Charming 



THE VALLEYS OF THE BLUE SHROUDS 

(Where the valiant poilus were buried in their blue uniforms) 

O shards of walls that once held precious life, 
Now scattered, like the bones the Prophet saw 
Lying in visioned valley of the slain 
Ere One cried: "Son of Man, can these bones live?' 

O images of heroes, saints, and Christs, 
Pierced, broken, thrust in hurried sepulture 



VALLEYS OF THE BLUE SHROUDS 47 

In selfsame tombs with tinsel, dross, and dreg, 
And without time for either shrift or shroud! 

O smold'ring embers of Love's hearthstone fires, 
Quenched by the fiercer fires of hellish hate, 
That have not where to kindle flames again 
To light succeeding generations on ! 

O ghost-gray ashes of cathedral towers 

That toward the sky once raised appealing hands 

To beg the God of all take residence 

And hold communion with the kneeling souls! 

O silent tongues of bells that once did ring 
Matin and Angelus o'er peaceful fields, 
Now shapeless slag that will to-morrow serve 
To make new engines for still others' woe! 

O dust that flowered in finial and foil 
And bright in many-petaled windows bloomed, 
Now unto dust returned at cannon's breath 
To lay thy faded glories on the crypt! 

O wounded cities that have been beloved 

As Priam's city was by Hecuba, — 

Sad Hecuba, who ere in exile borne, 

Beheld her Hector's child Astyanax 

Spitted on spear (as if a Belgian babe) 

And saw the walls in smoke and flame ascend 

To hover heav'nward with wide-brooding wings 

Above the "vanished thing" that once was Troy! 

O shards of sanctuaries and of homes ! 
O embers, ashes gray, and glinting dust! 



48 FRANCE 

Ye who were tile or tower in Laon or Ypres, 

A village by the Somme, a church in Roye, 

A bit of glass in Reims, a convent bell 

In St. Die, a lycee in Verdun, 

A wayside crucifix in Mezieres, 

Again I hear a cry: "Can these bones live?" 

Yes ! As the bones, o'er which the Prophet cried 
And called the breath from Hear'n's four winds to 

breathe, 
Sprang straightway, bone to bone, each to its place, 
To frame in flesh the features and the forms 
They still remembered and still loved to hold 
Once more on earth — so shall ye rise again! 

Out of their quarries, cumulus, the clouds 
Will furnish back your flame in crystal stone; 
The cirrus dawns in Parsee tapestries 
With azure broiderings will clothe your walls; 
The nimbus noons will shower golden rain 
And sunset colors fill each Gothic arch; 

For o'er thy stricken vales, O valiant France, 
Our love for thee shall prophesy anew, 
And Heav'n's Four Winds of Liberty, allied, 
Shall breathe unpoisoned in thy streets till they 
Shall pulse again with life that laughs and sings, 
And yet remembers, singing through its tears 
The music of an everlasting song — 
Remembers, proudly and undyingly, 
The hero dust that lies in shrouds of blue 
But rises as thy soul, immortal France ! 

John Finley 



SAINTE JEANNE OF FRANCE 49 

" SAINTE JEANNE OF FRANCE 

Sainte Jeanne went harvesting in France, 

But ah! what found she there? 
The little streams were running red, 

And the torn fields were bare; 
And all about the ruined towers 

Where once her king was crowned, 
The hurtling ploughs of war and death 

Had scored the desolate ground. 

Sainte Jeanne turned to the hearts of men, 

That harvest might not fail; 
Her sword was girt upon her thigh, 

Her dress was silvern mail; 
And all the war-worn ranks were glad 

To feel her presence shine; 
Her smile was like the mellow sun 

Along that weary line, 

She gave her silence to their lips, 

Her visions to their eyes, 
And the quick glory of her sword 

She lent to their emprise; 
The shadow of her gentle hand 

Touched Belgium's burning cross, 
And set the seal of power and praise 

On agony and loss. 

Sainte Jeanne went harvesting in France, 

And oh! what found she there? 
The brave seed of her scattering 

In fruitage everywhere; 



50 FRANCE 

And where her strong and tender heart 

Was broken in the flame, 
She found the very heart of France 

Had flowered to her name. 

Marion Couthouy Smith 



ITALY 



TO ITALY 

Thou art the world's desired, the golden fleece, 

Of Time's adventurers faring down to Hell, 
But Helen's self dwelt not so far from peace 

Nor so beset since lofty Ilium fell. 
Tyrants would pluck thee as men pluck a rose, 

Carthage and Greece, the Vandal and the Goth; 
Now more are added to thy many foes 

From East and West, ay, thou hast suffered both. 

Greece was enslaved, and Carthage is but dust, 
But thou art living, maugre all thy scars, 

To bear fresh wounds of rapine and of lust, 
Immortal victim of unnumbered wars. 

Nor shalt thou cease until we cease to be 

Whose hearts are thine, beloved Italy. 

Moray Dalton 



SERBIA, GREECE, AND ROUMANIA 



AUTUMN EVENING IN SERBIA 

All the thin shadows 

Have closed on the grass, 

With the drone on their dark wings 

The night beetles pass. 

Folded her eyelids, 

A maiden asleep, 

Day sees in her chamber 

The pallid moon peep. 

From the bend of the briar 
The roses are torn, 
And the folds of the wood tops 
Are faded and worn. 
A strange bird is singing 
Sweet notes of the sun, 
Tho' song time is over 
And Autumn begun. 

Francis Ledwidge 

** SERBIA 

When the heroic deeds that mark our time 
Shall, in far days to come, recorded be, 
Men, much forgetting, shall remember thee, 

Thou central martyr of the Monster-Crime, 

Who kept thy soul clear of the ooze and slime — 
The quicksands of deceit and perjury — 
A living thing, unconquered still and free, 

Through superhuman sacrifice sublime. 



58 SERBIA, GREECE. AND ROUMANIA 

O Serbia! amid thy ruins great, 

Love is immortal; there's an end to hate, 

Always there will be dawn, though dark the night. 
Look up, thou tragic Glory! Even now, 
The thorny round that binds thy bleeding brow 

Is as a crown irradiating light! 

Florence Earle Coates 

THE HOMECOMING OF THE SHEEP 

The sheep are coming home in Greece, 
Hark the bells on every hill! 
Flock by flock, and fleece by fleece, 
Wandering wide a little piece 
Thro' the evening red and still, 
Stopping where the pathways cease, 
Cropping with a hurried will. 

Thro' the cotton-bushes low 
Merry boys with shouldered crooks 
Close them in a single row, 
Shout among them as they go 
With one bell-ring o'er the brooks. 
Such delight you never know 
Reading it from gilded books. 

Before the early stars are bright 
Cormorants and sea-gulls call, 
And the moon comes large and white 
Filling with a lovely light 
The ferny curtained waterfall. 
Then sleep wraps every bell up tight 
And the climbing moon grows small. 

Francis Ledwidge 



ROUMANIA 59 



ROUMANIA 

Another land has crashed into the deep, 

The heir and namesake of that Rome, whose laws 
Spread the great peace. — Gray Power, that yet 
o'erawes 

The thoughts of men, first to bid nations keep 

The bounds of right, and earth's wild borders sleep, 
O, from thy pinnacle 'mid time's applause 
Salute, great Rome, the victim of man's cause, 

Thy child, Roumania! — Nay, not ours to weep. 

O Latin Race! how doth our debt increase 
At every flash of thy unfathomed soul, 

Long on the rock of justice founding peace, 
While ever round thee new-born ages roll! 

Genius divine! when shall thy glory cease! 
Rise, rise, Roumania! yet thy soul is whole! 

George Edward Woodberry 



CANADA 



OLD WAR 

I see you sitting in the sungleams there, 

Scabbard on arm, the mighty blade withdrawn, 
Musing a little. Dreams of customs gone 

People your mood — old loves, old quests to dare; 

The sword so doubly tempered to its wont 
Of battle, keen to be swift smiting through 
Dark arms, you fondle almost as if you 

Had borne it shouting in the fight's red front. 

All this upon a quiet afternoon 

Of golden sun in Canada. The years 
Are but a curtain that you brush aside. 
This hour you hear the ancient battle rune 
In gleaming glens, and to your sight appears 
Old war and all its honour and high pride. 

Arthur L. Phelps 



THE WAR CRY OF THE EAGLES 



Tecumseh of the Shawnees 
He dreamed a noble dream, — 
A league to hold their freedom old 
And make their peace supreme. 
He drew the tribes together 
And bound them to maintain 
Their sacred pact to stand and act 
For common good and gain. 



64 CANADA 



II 



The eagles taught Tecumseh 

The secret of their clan, — 

A way to keep o'er plain and steep 

The liberty of Man. 

The champions of freedom 

They may not weary soon, 

Nor lay aside in foolish pride 

The vigilance of noon. 

Those teachers of Tecumseh 
Were up to meet the dawn, 
To scan the light and hold the height 
Till the last light was gone. 
Like specks upon the azure, 
Their guards patrolled the sky, 
To mount and plain and soar again 
And give the warning cry. 

They watched for lurking perils, 
The death that skulks and crawls, 
To take by stealth their only wealth 
On wind-swept mountain walls. 
They did not trust the shadows 
That sleep upon the hill; 
Where menace hid, where cunning slid, 
They struck — and struck to kill. 

Through lonely space unmeasured 
They laid their sentry rings, 
Till every brood in eyrie rude 
Was shadowed by their wings. 



THE WAR CRY OF THE EAGLES 65 

Tecumseh watched the eagles 

In summer o'er the plain, 

And learned their cry, "If freedom die, 

Ye will have lived in vain! " 

ni 

The vision of Tecumseh, 

It could not long endure; 

He lacked the might to back the right 

And make his purpose sure. 

Tecumseh and his people 

Are gone; they could not hold 

Their league for good; their brotherhood 

Is but a tale that's told. 

IV 

The eagles of Tecumseh 

Still hold their lofty flight, 

And guard their own on outposts lone, 

Across the fields of light. 

They hold their valiant instinct 

And know their right of birth, 

They do not cede their pride of breed 

For things of little worth. 

They see on earth below them, 
Where time is but a breath, 
Another race brought face to face 
With liberty or death. 
Above a thousand cities 
A new day is unfurled, 
And still on high those watchers cry 
Their challenge o'er the world. 



66 CANADA 

Where patriots are marching 

And battle flags are borne, 

To South and North their cry goes forth 

To rally and to warn. 

From border unto border, 

They wheel and cry again 

That master cry, "If freedom die, 

Ye will have lived in vain!" 

Bliss Carman 



AUSTRALASIA 



" FAREWELL TO ANZAC 

Oh, hump your swag and leave, lads, the ships are in 

the bay; 
We 've got our marching orders now, it 's time to come 

away; 
And a long good-bye to Anzac beach where blood has 

flowed in vain, 
For we 're leaving it, leaving it — game to fight again ! 

But some there are will never quit that bleak and 

bloody shore, 
And some that marched and fought with us will fight 

and march no more; 
Their blood has bought till judgment day the slopes 

they stormed so well, 
And we're leaving them, leaving them, sleeping where 

they fell! 

(Leaving them, leaving them, the bravest and the 

best; 
Leaving them, leaving them, and maybe glad to rest! 
We 've done our best with yesterday, to-morrow 's still 

our own — 
But we're leaving them, leaving them, sleeping all 

alone!) 

Ay, they are gone beyond it all, the praising and the 

blame, 
And many a man may win renown, but none more fair 

a fame; 



70 AUSTRALASIA 

They showed the world Australia's lads knew well the 

way to die, 
And we're leaving them, leaving them, quiet where 

they lie! 

(Leaving them, leaving them, sleeping where they 

died; 
Leaving them, leaving them, in their glory and their 

pride — 
Round them sea and barren land, over them the sky, 
Oh, we're leaving them, leaving them, quiet where 

they lie!) 

C. Fox Smith 

[Copyright, 1919, by George H. Doran Company.] 

QUEENSLANDERS 

Lean brown lords of the Brisbane beaches, 

Lithe-limbed kings of the Culgoa bends, 
Princes that ride where the Roper reaches, 

Captains that camp where the gray Gulf ends — 
Never such goodly men together 

Marched since the kingdoms first made war; 
Nothing so proud as the Emu Feather 

Waved in an English wind before! 

Ardour and faith of those keen brown faces! 

Challenge and strength of those big brown hands! 
Eyes that have flashed upon wide-flung spaces! 

Chins that have conquered in fierce far lands ! — 
Flood could not daunt them, Drought could not break 
them; 

Deep in their hearts is their sun's own fire; 



THE NEW ZEALANDER 71 

Blood of thine own blood, England, take them! 
These are the swords of thy soul's desire! 

Will H. Ogilvie 



THE NEW ZEALANDER 

[Monody on the death of a member of the New Zealand Contingent, who, 
going to rest on the beach, was killed in his sleep by a discharge of shrapnel] 

Samothrace and Imbros lie 
Like blue shadows in the sky; 
Scented comes the wind from Greece 
Slow-winged as the Soul of Peace. 

All was still as evening came 
With a whisper, sheathed in flame, 
And the battlefield grew still 
From the Valley to the Hill. 

Just beyond the ripples' reach 
He was lying on the beach, 
Dreaming half of things at home, 
Mixing dreams with light and foam. 

Three days he had smelt the dead, 
Looked on black blood and on red, 
Gripped and lain, and cursed and hated, 
Feared, exulted, prayed, and waited. 

From the dawn till dusk was dim 
All the world had spied on him; 
And the wind that sighed so low 
Seemed the footstep of his foe, 



72 AUSTRALASIA 

And at night the fireflies dancing 
Were the light of men advancing. 
Swift his hands. His brain was cool. 
"Hell," he said, "poor Tom's at school." 

Then he rested on the beach 
Just beyond the ripples' reach, 
Home and sunset in his dream 
Till the shrapnel's quicker gleam 

Found his heart, and found his head — 
Found him dreaming, left him dead. 
And they buried him at night 
With men fallen in the fight. 

So he fought and went away 
With the glory of the day, 
And no hatred in his heart 
When the great ways met to part. 

On a beach without a name 
He died sleeping, robbed of fame, 
Just before the day grew dim. 
Tom, his brother, envied him. 

Ben Kendim 



YPRES 



YPRES 

City of stark desolation, 
Infinite voices of silence, 
Crying aloud in the daytime, 
Whispering shrill in the moonlight, 
Ask of the world, appealing: 
"What are you now but a name?'* 

Hushed are your streets, and the rumble 
Of lorries and wagons and limbers 
And low, dull tread of battalions, 
Moving stubbornly cheerful 
Back of invisible fighters 
Muddily bedded in Flanders — 
These alone for your roadways, 
And these for the hours of darkness. 
Wide to inscrutable heaven 
Lie, in their ruin all equal, 
Houses and hovels abandoned, 
Windowless yawnings and pillars, 
Chasms and doorways and gables, 
Tottering spectres of brickwork 
Strewn through the naked chambers — 
Never a home for the seeking, 
Not through the whole of the city, 
Save for the spirit-fled body. 
And over the breakage and rubble, 
Furious wastage of warfare, 
Rise in their piteous grandeur, 
Oaks still battling the tempest, 



76 YPRES 

Riven and broken Cathedral, 
Shattered, half-pinnacled Cloth-Hall, 
Towers of solemn, gray greatness 
Calling on heaven to witness, 
Listening, steadfastly watchful, 
For boom that will herald disaster 
Down on their remnants of glory, 
Asking the world appealing: 
"What are we now but a name?" 

City of wanton destruction, 
Standing nakedly awful, 
Token of agonized country, 
When was an answer demanded 
Tn so relentless a silence? 
How can the asking be empty? 
Name and naught else in your ruins, 
Crowned in the heart as an emblem, 
Child of the ravenous booming, 
Page of heroical story, 
Greatest in still desolation, 
Never in all your peace-slumber 
Garnered you fame as in fury. 
Silent mother of splendour, 
Stand when your ruins have crumbled 
And, sinking to soil of Flanders, 
Merged with the valiant sleepers; 
And after that and for always, 
As long as the breath of men's honour 
Is to the earth as the springtime, 
Speak with your voices undying; — 
How in the anguish and glory 
Belgium and Britain you stood for, 



EASTER AT YPRES 77 

World of men's honour undaunted 
Just in the lines round your city, 
Where the fierce waves of ambition, 
Ruthlessly seeking their purpose, 
Sank with the dead into Flanders. 
Desolate spirit unconquered, 
Here where the fury lingered, 
Here where the graves of the honoured 
Around your ruins are clustered, 
Rise in your triumph eternal, 
Built in the heart of man. 

Gorell 
Ypres, October, 1915 



EASTER AT YPRES: 1915 A 

The sacred Head was bound and diapered, 
The sacred Body wrapped in charnel shroud, 
And hearts were breaking, hopes that towered 

were bowed, 
And life died quite when died the living Word. 
So lies this ruined city. She hath heard 
The rush of foes brutal and strong and proud, 
And felt their bolted fury. She is ploughed 
With fire and steel, and all her grace is blurred. 

But with the third sun rose the Light indeed, 
Calm and victorious though with brows yet marred 
By Hell's red flame so lately visited. 

1 Written in a "dug-out" called "Mon Privilege" in 
"Glencorse Wood" by Westhoeck near Ypres, April 9-10, 
Easter Week, 1915. 



78 YPRES 

Nor less for thee, sweet city, better starred 
Than this grim hour portends, new times succeed; 
And thou shalt reawake, though aye be scarred. 

W. S. S. Lyon 

THE FIRST BATTLE OF YPRES » 

Grey field of Flanders, grim old battle-plain, 
What armies held the iron line round Ypres in the rain, 
From Bixschoote to Baecelaere and down to the Lys 
river? 

Merry men of England, 

Men of the green shires, 

From the winding waters, 

The elm-trees and the spires, • 

And the lone village dreaming in the downland yonder. 
Half a million Huns broke over them in thunder, 
Roaring seas of Huns swept on and sunk again, 
Where fought the men of England round Ypres in the 

rain, 
On the grim plain of Flanders, whose earth is fed with 
slaughter. 

1 In the first Battle of Ypres, which was fought in Oc- 
tober-November, 1914, a thin line of British, supported on 
each wing by small bodies of French, stopped the push of 
an immense German army on Calais, The allusion in the 
latter part of the poem is not to "the angels of Mons," but to 
a story received from a very competent witness. On three 
occasions the Germans broke through the line, then paused 
and retired, for no apparent reason. On each of these occa- 
sions prisoners, when asked the cause of their retirement, 
replied: "We saw your enormous Reserves." We had no 
Reserves. This story was incidentally confirmed by the re- 
mark of another officer on the curious conduct of the Germans 
in violently shelling certain empty fields behind our lines. 



THE FIRST BATTLE OF YPRES 79 

North-country fighting men from the mine and the 

loom, 
Highlander and lowlander stood up to death and 

doom, 
From Bixschoote to Baecelaere and down to the Lys 

river. 

London men and Irish, 
Indian men and French, 
Charging with the bayonet, 
Firing in the trench, 
Fought in that furious fight, shoulder to shoulder. 
Leapt from their saddles to charge in fierce disorder, 
The Life Guards, mud and blood for the scarlet and 

the plume, 
And they hurled back the foemen as the wind the sea 

spume, 
From Bixschoote to Baecelaere and down to the Lys 
river. 

But the huge Hun masses yet mounted more and more, 
Like a giant wave gathering to whelm the sweet shore, 
While swift the exultant foam runs on before and over. 

Where that foam was leaping, 
With bayonets, or with none, 
The cooks and the service men 
Ran upon the Hun. 
The cooks and the service men charged and charged 

together 
Moussy's cuirassiers, on foot, with spur and sabre; 
Helmed and shining fought they as warriors fought of 
yore — 



80 YPRES 

Till calm fell sinister as the hush at the whirlwind's 

core, 
From Bixschoote to Baecelaere and down to the Lys 

river. 

Lo! the Emperor launched on us his guard of old 

renown, 
Stepping in parade-march, as they step through Berlin 

town, 
On the chill road to Gheluveldt, in the dark before the 

dawning. 

Heavily tolled on them 
Mortal mouths of guns, 
Gallantly, gallantly 
Came the flower of the Huns. 
Proud men they marched, like an avalanche on us 

falling, 
Prouder men they met, in the dark before the dawn- 
ing. 
Seven to one they came against us to shatter us and 

drown, 
One to seven in the woodland we fought them up and 

down, 
In the sad November woodland, when all the skies 
were mourning. 

The long battle thundered till a waxing moon might 

wane, 
Thrice they broke the exhausted line that held them 

on the plain, 
And thrice like billows they went back, from viewless 

bounds retiring. 



THE FIRST BATTLE OF YPRES 81 

Why paused they and went backward, 
With never a foe before 
Like a loog wave dragging 
Down a level shore 
Its fierce reluctant surges, that came triumphant 

storming 
The land, and powers invisible drive to its deep 

returning? 
On the grey field of Flanders again and yet again 
The Huns beheld the Great Reserves on the old battle- 
plain, 
The blood-red field of Flanders, where all the skies 
were mourning. 

The fury of their marshalled guns might plough no 

dreadful lane 
Through those Reserves that waited in the ambush of 

the rain, 
On the riven plain of Flanders, where hills of men lay 

moaning. 

They hurled upon an army 
The bellowing heart of Hell, 
We saw but the meadows 
Torn with their shot and shell. 
We heard not the march of the succours that were 

coming, 
Their old forgotten bugle-calls, the fifes and the drum- 
ming, 
But they gathered and they gathered from the graves 

where they had lain 
A hundred years, hundreds of years, on the old battle- 
plain, 
And the young graves of Flanders, all fresh with dews 
of mourning. 



82 YPRES 

Marlborough's men and Wellington's, the burghers of 

Courtrai, 
The warriors of Plantagenet, King Louis' Gants 

glacis — 
And the young, young dead from Mons and the Marne 

river. 

Old heroic fighting men, 

Who fought for chivalry, 

Men who died for England, 

Mother of Liberty. 
In the world's dim heart, where the waiting spirits 

slumber, 
Sounded a roar when the walls were rent asunder 
That parted Earth from Hell, and summoning them 

away, 
Tremendous trumpets blew, as at the Judgment Day — 
And the dead came forth, each to his former banner. 

On the grim field of Flanders, the old battle-plain, 

Their armies held the iron line round Ypres in the rain, 

From Bixschoote to Baecelaere and down to the Lys 

river. 

Margaret L. Woods 

RUINS 

(Ypres, 1917) 

Ruins of trees whose woeful arms 
Vainly invoke the sombre sky, — 

Stripped, twisted boughs and tortured boles, 

Like lost souls, — 
How green they grew on the little farms ! 



RUINS 83 

Ruins of stricken wall and spire, 

Stretched mile on desolate mile along, — 

Ghosts of a life of sweet intent, 

Riven and rent 
By frantic shell and searching fire. 

Ruins of soldiers torn and slain, 
English bodies broken for you: 

Burned in their hearts the battle-cry! . . . 
Forspent they lie, 
Clay crumbling slow to clay again. 

George Herbert Clarke 



OXFORD 



OXFORD IN WAR-TIME 

What alters you, familiar lawn and tower, 
Arched alley, and garden green to the grey wall 
With crumbling crevice and the old wine-red flower, 
Solitary in summer sun? for all 

Is like a dream : I tread on dreams ! No stir 
Of footsteps, voices, laughter! Even the chime 
Of many-memoried bells is lonelier 
In this neglected ghostliness of Time. 

What stealing touch of separation numb 
Absents you? Yet my heart springs up to adore 
The shrining of your soul, that is become 
Nearer and oh, far dearer than before. 

It is as if I looked on the still face 
Of a Mother, musing where she sits alone. 
She is with her sons, she is not in this place; 
She is gone out into far lands unknown. 

Because that filled horizon occupies 
Her heart with mute prayer and divining fear, 
Therefore her hands so calm lie, and her eyes 
See nothing ; and men wonder at her here : 

But far in France; on the torn Flanders plain; 
By Sinai; in the Macedonian snows; 
The fly-plagued sands of Tigris, heat and rain; 
On wandering water, where the black squall blows 



88 OXFORD 

Less danger than the bright wave ambushes, 
She bears it out. All the long day she bears 
And the sudden hour of instant challenges 
To act, that searches all men, no man spares. 

She is with her sons, leaving a virtue gone 
Out of her sacred places: what she bred 
Lives other life than this, that sits alone, 
Though still in dream starrily visited! 

For in youth she lives, not in her age. 
Her soul is with the springtime and the young; 
And she absents her from the learned page, 
Studious of high histories yet unsung, 

More passionately prized than wisdom's book 
Because her own. Her faith is in those eyes 
That clear into the gape of hell can look, 
Putting to proof ancient philosophies 

Such as the virgin Muses would rehearse 
Beside the silvery, swallow-haunted stream, 
Under the grey towers. But immortal verse 
Is now exchanged for its immortal theme — 

Victory; proud loss; and the enduring mind; 
Youth, that has passed all praises, and has won 
More than renown, being that which faith divined, 
Reality more radiant than the sun. 

She gave, she gives, more than all anchored days 

Of dedicated lore, of storied art; 

And she resigns her beauty to men's gaze 

To mask the riches of her bleeding heart. 

Laurence Binyon 



TO OXFORD MEN IN THE WAR 89 



TO THE OXFORD MEN IN THE WAR 

Often, on afternoons gray and sombre, 

When clouds lie low and dark with rain, 
A random bell strikes a chord familiar 

And I hear the Oxford chimes again. 
Never I see a swift stream running 

Cold and full from shore to shore, 
But I think of Isis, and remember 

The leaping boat and the throbbing oar. 

my brothers, my more than brothers — 

Lost and gone are those days indeed: 
Where are the bells, the gowns, the voices, 

All that made us one blood and breed? 
Gone — and in many an unknown pitfall 

You have swinked, and died like men — 
And here I sit in a quiet chamber 

Writing on paper with a pen. 

my brothers, my more than brothers — 
Big, intolerant, gallant boys! 

Going to war as into a boat-race, 
Full of laughter and fond of noise! 

1 can imagine your smile: how eager, 
Nervous for the suspense to be done — 

And I remember the Iffley meadows, 
The crew alert for the starting gun. 

Old gray city, dear gray city, 

How young we were, and how close to Truth! 
We envied no one, we hated no one, 

All was magical to our youth. 



90 OXFORD 

Still, in the hall of the Triple Roses, 

The cannel casts its ruddy span, 
And still the garden gate discloses 

The message Manners Makyth Man. 

Then I recall that an Oxford college, 

Setting a stone for those who have died, 
Nobly remembered all her children — 

Even those on the German side. 
That was Oxford! and that was England! 

Fight your enemy, fight him square; 
But in justice, honour, and pity 

Even the enemy has his share. 

Christopher Morley 
November, 1916 

[From Songs for a Little Rome. Copyright, 1916, by George H. Doran 
Company.] 

THE GHOSTS OF OXFORD 

As I went walking up and down 
The darkened streets of Oxford town, 
I seemed to see them all astir 
With ghosts of those who died for her; 
I saw the Scholar and the Blue, 
The Smug, the Blood, the Slacker too, 
Who, different in all beside, 
Were like in this — the way they died. 
O Oxford men, from Smug to Blue, 
My heart was sore, was sore for you! 
And then there came across the years 
A voice as through a mist of tears : 
"And what of us who wore the gown, 
Long since with you in Oxford town? 



SUBALTERNS 91 

Should we have died as brave and gay 

As those who die for her to-day?" 

And I made answer: "Even so! 

friends of thirty years ago. 

We too, God helping us, had died 

As gay, as nobly satisfied!" 

These were the ghosts I seemed to see, 

These were the ghosts that talked with me, 

As I went walking up and down 

The darkened streets of Oxford town. 

W. Snow 



SUBALTERNS 

A Song of Oxford 

They had so much to lose; their radiant laughter 
Shook my old walls — how short a time ago! 

I hold the echoes of their song hereafter 
Among the precious things I used to know. 

Their cup of life was full to overflowing, 
All earth had laid its tribute at their feet. 

What harvest might we hope from such a sowing? 
What noonday from a dawning so complete? 

And I — I watched them working, dreaming, playing, 
Saw their young bodies fit the mind's desire, 

Felt them reach outward, upward, still obeying 
The passionate dictates of their hidden fire. 

Yet here and there some greybeard breathed derision, 
"Too much of luxury, too soft an age! 



92 OXFORD 

Your careless Galahads will see no vision, 

Your knights will make no mark on honour's page." 

No mark? — Go ask the broken fields in Flanders, 
Ask the great dead who watched in ancient Troy, 

Ask the old moon as round the world she wanders, 
What of the men who were my hope and joy! 

They are but fragments of Imperial splendour, 
Handf uls of might amid a mighty host, 

Yet I, who saw them go with proud surrender, 
May surely claim to love them first and most. 

They who had all, gave all. Their half-writ story 
Lies in the empty halls they knew so well, 

But they, the knights of God, shall see His glory, 
And find the Grail ev'n in the fire of hell. 

Mildred Huxley 



REFLECTIONS 



*IN TIME OF "THE BREAKING OF NATIONS" 1 



Only a man harrowing clods 

In a slow silent walk 
With an old horse that stumbles and nods 

Half asleep as they stalk. 

II 

Only thin smoke without flame 
From the heaps of couch-grass; 

Yet this will go onward the same 
Though Dynasties pass. 

Ill 

Yonder a maid and her wight 

Come whispering by : 
War's annals will fade into night 
Ere their story die. 

Thomas Hardy 
1915 

y THE SOLDIER SPEAKS 

If courage thrives on reeking slaughter, 

And he who kills is lord 

Of beauty and of loving laughter — 

Gird on me a sword! 
If death be dearest comrade proven, 
If life be coward's mate, 

1 Jeremiah li, 20. 



96 REFLECTIONS 

If Nazareth of dreams be woven — 
Give me fighter's fate! 

If God be thrilled by a battle cry, 
If He can bless the moaning fight, 
If when the trampling charge goes by • 
God Himself is the leading Knight; 
If God laughs when the gun thunders, 
If He yells when the bullet sings — 
Then my stoic soul but wonders 
How great God can do such things! 

The white gulls wheeling over the plough, 

The sun, the reddening trees — 
We being enemies, I and thou, 

There is no meaning to these. 
There is no flight on the wings of Spring, 

No scent in the summer rose; 
The roundelays that the blackbirds sing — 

There is no meaning in those ! 

If you must kill me — why the lark, 

The hawthorn bud, and the corn? 
Why do the stars bedew the dark? 

Why is the blossom born? 
If I must kill you — why the kiss * 

Which made you? There is no why! 
If it be true we were born for this — 

Pitiful Love, Goodbye! 

Not for the God of battles! 
For Honour, Freedom and Right, 
And saving of gentle Beauty, 
We have gone down to fight! 

John Galsworthy 



THE RAGGED STONE 97 



THE RAGGED STONE 

As I was walking with my dear, my dear come back at 

last, 
The shadow of the Ragged Stone fell on us as we 

passed : 

And if the tale be true they tell about the Ragged 

Stone 
I'll not be walking with my dear next year, nor yet 

alone. 

And we're to wed come Michaelmas, my lovely dear 

and I; 
And we're to have a little house, and do not want to 

die. 

But all the folk are fighting in the lands across the sea, 
Because the King and counsellors went mad in 
Germany. 

Because the King and counsellors went mad, my love 

and I 
May never have a little house before we come to 

die. 

And if the tale be true they tell about the Ragged 

Stone 
I'll not be walking with my dear next year, nor yet 

alone. 

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 

[From Hill-Tracks. Copyright, 1918, by The Macmillan Company.] 



98 REFLECTIONS 

THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR 

There is no joy in strife, 

Peace is my great desire; 
Yet God forbid I lose my life 

Through fear to face the fire. 

A peaceful man must fight 

For that which peace demands, — 

Freedom and faith, honor and right, 
Defend with heart and hands. 

Farewell, my friendly books; 

Farewell, ye woods and streams; 
The fate that calls me forward looks 

To a duty beyond dreams. 

Oh, better to be dead 

With a face turned to the sky, 
Than live beneath a slavish dread 
' And serve a giant lie. 

Stand up, my heart, and strive 

For the things most dear to thee ! 
Why should we care to be alive 
Unless the world is free? 

Henry van Dyke 
April 20, 1918 

[Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.] 

THE GUNS IN SUSSEX 

Light green of grass and richer green of bush 
Slope upwards to the darkest green of fir; 

How still! How deathly still! And yet the hush 
Shivers and trembles with some subtle stir, 



THE GUNS IN SUSSEX 99 

Some far-off throbbing, like a muffled drum, 

Beaten in broken rhythm over sea, 
To play the last funereal march of some 

Who die to-day that Europe may be free. 

The deep-blue heaven, curving from the green, 

Spans with its shimmering arch the flowery zone; 
In all God's earth there is no gentler scene, 

And yet I hear that awesome monotone; 
Above the circling midge's piping shrill, 

And the long droning of the questing bee, 
Above all sultry summer sounds, it still 

Mutters its ceaseless menaces to me. 

And as I listen all the garden fair 

Darkens to plains of misery and death, 
And looking past the roses I see there 

Those sordid furrows, with the rising breath 
Of all things foul and black. My heart is hot 

Within me as I view it, and I cry, 
"Better the misery of these men's lot 

Than all the peace that comes to such as I!" 

And strange that in the pauses of the sound 

I hear the children's laughter as they roam, 
And then their mother calls, and all around 

Rise up the gentle murmurs of a home. 
But still I gaze afar, and at the sight 

My whole soul softens to its heartfelt prayer, 
"Spirit of Justice, Thou for whom they fight, 

Ah, turn, in mercy, to our lads out there! 

"The fro ward peoples have deserved Thy wrath, 
And on them is the Judgment as of old. 



100 REFLECTIONS 

But if they wandered from the hallowed path, 

Yet is their retribution manifold. 
Behold all Europe writhing on the rack, 

The sins of fathers grinding down the sons, 
How long, O Lord!" He sends no answer back, 

But still I hear the mutter of the guns. 

Arthur Conan Doyle 

GODS OF WAR 

Fate wafts us from the pygmies' shore: 

We swim beneath the epic skies: 

A Rome and Carthage war once more, 

And wider empires are the prize; 

Where the beaked galleys clashed, lo, these 

Our iron dragons of the seas! 

High o'er the cloudy battle sweep 
The winged chariots in their flight. 
The steely creatures of the deep 
Cleave the dark waters' ancient night. 
Below, above, in wave, in air 
New worlds for conquest everywhere. 

More terrible than spear or sword 
Those stars that burst with fiery breath: 
More loud the battle cries are poured 
Along a hundred leagues of death. 
So do they fight. How have ye warred, 
Defeated Armies of the Lord? 

This is the Dark Immortal's hour; 
His victory, whoever fail; 



GODS OF WAR 101 

His prophets have not lost their power: 
Caesar and Attila prevail. 
These are your legions still, proud ghosts, 
These myriad embattled hosts. 

How wanes Thine empire, Prince of Peace! 
With the fleet circling of the suns 
The ancient gods their power increase. 
Lo, how Thine own anointed ones 
Do pour upon the warring bands 
The devil's blessings from their hands. 

Who dreamed a dream 'mid outcasts born 
Could overbrow the pride of kings? 
They pour on Christ the ancient scorn. 
His Dove its gold and silver wings 
Has spread. Perhaps it nests in flame 
In outcasts who abjure His name. 

Choose ye your rightful gods, nor pay 
Lip reverence that the heart denies, 
O Nations ! Is not Zeus to-day, 
The thunderer from the epic skies, 
More than the Prince of Peace? Is Thor 
Not nobler for a world at war? 

They fit the dreams of power we hold, 
Those gods whose names are with us still. 
Men in their image made of old 
The high companions of their will. 
Who seek an airy empire's pride, 
Would they pray to the Crucified? 



102 REFLECTIONS 

O outcast Christ, it was too soon 
For flags of battle to be furled 
While life was yet at the hot noon. 
Come in the twilight of the world: 
Its kings may greet Thee without scorn 
And crown Thee then without a thorn. 

A.E. 

A LOST LAND 

(To Germany) 

[Reprinted by permission of the Proprietors of Punch.] 

A childhood land of mountain ways, 
Where earthy gnomes and forest fays, 
Kind foolish giants, gentle bears, 
Sport with the peasant as he fares 
Affrighted through the forest glades, 
And lead sweet wistful little maids 
Lost in the woods, forlorn, alone, 
To princely lovers and a throne. 

Dear haunted land of gorge and glen, 
Ah me! the dreams, the dreams of men! 

A learned land of wise old books 
And men with meditative looks, 
Who move in quaint red-gabled towns 
And sit in gravely-folded gowns, 
Divining in deep-laden speech 
The world's supreme arcana — each 
A homely god to listening Youth 
Eager to tear the veil of Truth; 



OF GREATHAM 103 

Mild votaries of book and pen — 
Alas, the dreams, the dreams of men ! 

A music land, whose life is wrought 
In movements of melodious thought; 
In symphony, great wave on wave — 
Or fugue, elusive, swift, and grave; 
A singing land, whose lyric rhymes 
Float on the air like village chimes: 
Music and Verse — the deepest part 
Of a whole nation's thinking heart! 

Oh land of Now, oh land of Then! 

Dear God ! the dreams, the dreams of men ! 

Slave nation in a land of hate, 
Where are the things that made you great? 
Child-hearted once — oh, deep defiled, 
Dare you look now upon a child? 
Your lore — a hideous mask wherein 
Self-worship hides its monstrous sin : — 
Music and Verse, divinely wed — 
How can these live where love is dead? 

$ $ $ £ $ 

Oh, depths, beneath sweet human ken, 
God help the dreams, the dreams of men ! 

Kathleen Knox 

OF GREATHAM 

(To THOSE WHO LIVE THERE) 

For peace, than knowledge more desirable, 
Into your Sussex quietness I came, 

When summer's green and gold and azure fell 
Over the world in flame. 



104 REFLECTIONS 

And peace upon your pasture-lands I found, 
Where grazing flocks drift on continually, 

As little clouds that travel with no sound 
Across a windless sky. 

Out of your oaks the birds call to their mates 
That brood among the pines, where hidden deep 

From curious eyes a world's adventure waits 
In columned choirs of sleep. 

Under the calm ascension of the night 
We heard the mellow lapsing and return 

Of night-owls purring in their groundling flight 
Through lanes of darkling fern. 

Unbroken peace when all the stars were drawn 
Back to their lairs of light, and ranked along 

From shire to shire the downs out of the dawn 
Were risen in golden song. 

I sing of peace who have known the large unrest 

Of men bewildered in their travelling, 
And I have known the bridal earth unblest 

By the brigades of spring. 

I have known that loss. And now the broken thought 
Of nations marketing in death I know, 

The very winds to threnodies are wrought 
That on your downlands blow. 

I sing of peace. Was it but yesterday 

I came among your roses and your corn? 
Then momently amid this wrath I pray 
For yesterday reborn. 

John Drinkwater 



IT WILL BE A HARD WINTER 105 

/ 

'IT WILL BE A HARD WINTER' 

Thef say the blue king jays have flown 

From woods of Westchester: 

So I am off for Luthany, 

But I shall make no stir; 

For who fair Luthany would see, 

Must set him forth alone. 

In screwing winds last night the snow 

Creaked like an angry jinn; 

And two old men from up the State 

Said, "Bears went early in," — 

Half pausing by my ice-locked gate, — 

"March will be late to blow." 

So I for Luthany am bound, 
And I shall take no pack; 
You cannot find the way, you know, 
With feet that make a track, 
But light as blowing leaf must go, 
And you must hear a sound 

That's like a singing strange and high 

Of birds you've never seen; 

Then two ghosts come; as doves they move, 

While you must walk between; 

And one is Youth and one is Love, 

Who say, " We did not die." 

The harp-built walls of Luthany 
Are builded high and strong, 
To shelter singer, fool, and seer; 
And glad they live, and long. 



106 REFLECTIONS 

All others die who enter there, 
But they are safe, these three. 

The seer can warm his body through 

By some far fire he sees; 

The fool can naked dance in snow; 

The singer — as he please! 

And which I be of these, oho, 

That is a guess for you ! 

Once in a thousand years, they say, 
The walls are beaten down; 
And then they find a singer dead; 
But swift they set a crown 
Upon his lowly, careless head, 
And sing his song for aye! 

So I to Luthany will flee, 
While here the winter raves. 
God send I go not as one blind 
A-dancing upon graves! 
God save a madman if I find 
War's heel on Luthany! 

Olive Tilford Dargan 



THE STEEPLE 

[Reprinted by permission of the Proprietors of Punch.] 

There's mist in the hollows, 
There's gold on the tree, 

And South go the swallows 
Away over sea. 



THE STEEPLE 107 



They home in our steeple 

That climbs in the wind, 
And, parson and people, 

We welcome them kind. 

The steeple was set here 

In 1266; 
If William could get here 

He'd burn it to sticks. 

He'd burn it for ever, 

Bells, belfry and vane, 
That swallows would never 

Come back there again. 

He'd bang down their perches 

With cannon and gun, 
For churches are churches, 

And William's a Hun. 

So — mist in the hollow 

And leaf falling brown — 
Ere home comes the swallow 

May William be down! 

And high stand the steeples 

From Lincoln to Wells 
For parsons and peoples, 

For birds and for bells ! 

Patrick R. Chalmers 



108 REFLECTIONS 

CHRIST IN FLANDERS 

We had forgotten You, or very nearly — 
You did not seem to touch us very nearly — 

Of course we thought about You now and then; 
Especially in any time of trouble — 
We knew that You were good in time of trouble — 

But we are very ordinary men. 

And there were always other things to think of — 
There's lots of things a man has got to think of — 

His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife; 
And so we only thought of You on Sunday — 
Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday — 

Because there's always lots to fill one's life. 

And, all the while, in street or lane or byway — 
In country lane, in city street, or byway — 

You walked among us, and we did not see. 
Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements 
How did we miss Your Footprints on our pave- 
ments? — 

Can there be other folk as blind as we? 

Now we remember; over here in Flanders — 
(It is n't strange to think of You in Flanders) — 

This hideous warfare seems to make things clear. 
We never thought about You much in England — 
But now that we are far away from England — 

We have no doubts, we know that You are here. 

You helped us pass the jest along the trenches — 
Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches — 
You touched its ribaldry and made it fine. 



BATTLE SLEEP 109 

You stood beside us in our pain and weakness — 
We 're glad to think You understand our weakness — 
Somehow it seems to help us not to whine. 

We think about You kneeling in the Garden — 
Ah ! God ! the agony of that dread Garden — 

We know You prayed for us upon the Cross. 
If anything could make us glad to bear it — 
'T would be the knowledge that You willed to bear it — 

Pain — death — the uttermost of human loss. 

Though we forgot You — You will not forget us — 
We feel so sure that You will not forget us — 

But stay with us until this dream is past. 
And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon — 
Especially, I think, we ask for pardon — 

And that You '11 stand beside us to the last. 

L. W. 

^BATTLE SLEEP 

Somewhere, O sun, some corner there must be 

Thou visitest, where down the strand 
Quietly, still, the waves go out to sea 

From the green fringes of a pastoral land. 

Deep in the orchard-bloom the roof-trees stand, 
The brown sheep graze along the bay, 

And through the apple-boughs above the sand 
The bees' hum sounds no fainter than the spray. 

There through uncounted hours declines the day 

To the low arch of twilight's close, 
And, just as night about the moon grows gray, 

One sail leans westward to the fading rose. 



110 REFLECTIONS 

Giver of dreams, O thou with scatheless wing 
Forever moving through the fiery hail, 

To flame-seared lids the cooling vision bring, 
And let some soul go seaward with that sail! 

Edith Wharton 

[Reprinted by permission of the Editor of the Century Magazine, and 
of Charles Scribner's Sons.] 

NAPOLEON 

Foe France and liberty he set apart 

His soul at first in aspiration high. 

But pure thoughts wither and ideals die. 
And self, fed richly from ambition's mart, 
Swelled, triumphed with insinuating art, 

The hideous, monstrous, all-engrossing I, 

Which strangled love and France and liberty 
And laid its eager clutch on Europe's heart. 

Then Spain assailed it like an autumn gust, 
And England netted it with her sea-might, 
And Russia opened all her icy graves. 
The huge colossus crumbled into dust 
And sank forever out of human sight 

On a lone island 'mid the Atlantic waves. 

Gamaliel Bradford 

NAPOLEON'S TOMB 

Through the great doors, where Paris flowed 

incessant, 
Fell certain dimness, as of some poised hour, 
Caught from the ashes of the Infinite 
And prisoned there in solemn purple state, 



NAPOLEON'S TOMB 111 

To make illusion for dead majesty! 

A dusk of greatness, such as well might brood 

Beneath the wings of Destiny's proud day; 

A calm, immortal twilight mantling up 

To the great dome, where painted triumph rides 

High o'er the dust that once bestrode it all — 

Nor ever fame had fairer firmament! 

It was as though Ambition still should live 

In marble over him; as though his dream — 

From whose high tower and colored casements round 

He, with a royal thievery in his eye, 

Did look upon the apple of a world — 

Should take this shape, and being clothed with walls. 

Stand, in such permanence as matter gives 

To house his glory through the centuries. 

Then I went in, with Paris pressing slow, 

And saw the long blue shadows folding down 

Upon the casket of the Emperor. 

A soldier in a faded uniform 

Stood close beside me. He was one of those 

Who die and leave no lament on the wind . . . 

And straightway gazing on him I beheld 

Not death's magnificence; not fame's hushed tomb — 

But grim Oblivion, and the fields of France! 

And on some nameless hillside, where the night 

Sets out wild flaming candles for the dead, 

Innumerable corpses palely sprawled 

Beneath the silent, cold, anonymous stars. 

Dana Burnet 

Paris, 1918 

[Copyright, 1918, by The New York Evening Sun. 
Copyright, 1918, by Dana Burnet.] 



112 REFLECTIONS 

THE VISION OF SPRING, 1916 

All night in a cottage far 
Death and I had waged our war 
Where, at such a bitter cost, 
Death had won and I had lost; 
And as I climbed up once more 
From that poor, tear-darkened door, 
From the valley seemed to rise, 
In one cry, all human cries — 

Yea, from such a mortal woe 
Earth seemed at its overthrow, 
And the very deeps unlocked 
Of all anguished ages, mocked 
In that they beheld at last 
This their self-sown holocaust, 
And their latest, loveliest sons 
Shattered by ten thousand guns. 

Then the friend who said to me, 
Naught's so brief as agony, 
Seemed to stand revealed and blind, 
And a foe to humankind, 
And I cried, Why very Spring 
Shudders at this fearful thing, 
And withholds her kindling sun, 
Seeing Life and Grief are one. 

Nay, said he, but in all earth 
There's one power, and that is Birth, 
And the starkest human pain 
Is but joy being born again, 



THE VISION OF SPRING 113 

And all night, had you but heard, 
There's no depth that has not stirred 
That to-morrow men may see 
God in every bursting tree — 

Yea, he said, the Very God 
In each blade that bends the sod, 
In each sod that feeds the blade, 
In each hushed, far-hidden glade, 
In each prairie, running free 
O'er some long fast-frozen sea, 
In each jungle, fierce and lush 
From its glutting thunder-gush, 
In each mammoth mountain-side, 
Thrust from womb of earth in pride, 
Climbing till creation dies 
From its crude, star-stricken eyes — 

Yea, and in all eyes that see 
That frustrate immensity, 
And the larger life that wings 
In the least of creeping things; 
In the swift, invisible rain 
Poured into the human brain, 
In all gods that men made first 
When earth's glories on them burst, 
Gods of serpents, stars, and trees, 
And the gods that fashioned these, 

Great Gautama, propped afar 
Where no tears or laughter are, 
And the greater God Who died 
That men might, uncrucified 



114 REFLECTIONS 

From the cross of pride and priest, 
Be as brothers at life's feast, 
God the Father, God the Son, 
God the Love in everyone — 

And I saw then fall away 
Veils from that gun-shattered clay 
And, beneath each scalding tear, 
Sink to death some human fear, 
And, behind each springing blade, 
Move the slow, divine brigade 
Of all brave, up-rendered life 
To the last supremest strife — 

Yea, I saw from upper air 
God in ambush everywhere; 
And at that triumphant sight 
Lo, the dawn out-topped the night. 

H. E. Bashford 

NIAGARA 
I 

Within the town of Buffalo 
Are prosy men with leaden eyes. 
Like ants they worry to and fro, 
(Important men, in Buffalo.) 
But only twenty miles away 
A deathless glory is at play: 
Niagara, Niagara. 

The women buy their lace and cry: — 
"O such a delicate design," 



NIAGARA 115 



And over ostrich feathers sigh, 
By counters there, in Buffalo. 
The children haunt the trinket shops, 
They buy false-faces, bells, and tops, 
Forgetting great Niagara. 

Within the town of Buffalo 

Are stores with garnets, sapphires, pearls, 

Rubies, emeralds aglow, — 

Opal chains in Buffalo, 

Cherished symbols of success. 

They value not your rainbow dress : — 

Niagara, Niagara. 

The shaggy meaning of her name 
This Buffalo, this recreant town, 
Sharps and lawyers prune and tame: 
Few pioneers in Buffalo; 
Except young lovers flushed and fleet 
And winds hallooing down the street: 
"Niagara, Niagara." 

The journalists are sick of ink: 

Boy prodigals are lost in wine, 

By night where white and red lights blink, 

The eyes of Death, in Buffalo. 

And only twenty miles away 

Are starlit rocks and healing spray: — 

Niagara, Niagara. 

Above the town a tiny bird, 
A shining speck at sleepy dawn, 
Forgets the ant-hill so absurd, 



116 REFLECTIONS 

This self-important Buffalo. 
Descending twenty miles away 
He bathes his wings at break of day — 
Niagara, Niagara. 

II 

What marching men of Buffalo 
Flood the streets in rash crusade f 
Fools-to-free-the-world, they go, 
Primeval hearts from Buffalo. 
Red cataracts of France to-day 
Awake, three thousand miles away, 
An echo of Niagara, 
The cataract Niagara. 

Vachel Lindsay 

^THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES 

And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks 
In this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks, 
How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars 
On these magnificent, cruel wars? — 
Venus, that brushes with her shining lips 
(Surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocks 
With hers its all ungentle wantonness? — 
Or the large moon (pricked by the spars of ships 
Creeping and creeping in their restlessness), 
The moon pouring strange light on things more strange, 
Looks she unheedfully on seas and lands 
Trembling with change and fear of count erchange? 

O, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars! 
The sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering. 



THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES 117 

I cannot look up to the crowded height 
And see the fair stars trembling in their light, 
For thinking of the starlike spirits of men 
Crowding the earth and with great passion quiver- 
ing: — 
Stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity. 
I cannot look up to the naked skies 
Because a sorrow on dark midnight lies, 
Death, on the living world of sense; 
Because on my own land a shadow lies 
That may not rise; 

Because from bare grey hillside and rich city 
Streams of uncomprehending sadness pour, 
Thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence . . . 
How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars 
On these magnificent, cruel wars? 

Stars trembled in broad heaven, faint with pity. 

An hour to dawn I looked. Beside the trees 

Wet mist shaped other trees that branching rose, 

Covering the woods and putting out the stars. 

There was no murmur on the seas, 

No wind blew — only the wandering air that grows 

With dawn, then murmurs, sighs, 

And dies. 

The mist climbed slowly, putting out the stars, 

And the earth trembled when the stars were gone; 

And moving strangely everywhere upon 

The trembling earth, thickened the watery mist. 

And for a time the holy things are veiled. 
England's wise thoughts are swords; her quiet hours 
Are trodden underfoot like wayside flowers, 



118 REFLECTIONS 

And every English heart is England's wholly. 

In starless night 

A serious passion streams the heaven with light.. 

A common beating is in the air — 

The heart of England throbbing everywhere. 

And all her roads are nerves of noble thought, 

And all her people's brain is but her brain; 

And all her history, less her shame, 

Is part of her requickened consciousness. 

Her courage rises clean again. 

Even in victory there hides defeat; 

The spirit's murdered though the body survives, 

Except the cause for which a people strives 

Burn with no covetous, foul heat. 

Fights she against herself who infamously draws 

The sword against man's secret spiritual laws. 

But thou, England, because a bitter heel 

Hath sought to bruise the brain, the sensitive will, 

The conscience of the world, 

For this, England, art risen, and shalt fight 

Purely through long profoundest night, 

Making their quarrel thine who are grieved like thee; 

And (if to thee the stars yield victory) 

Tempering their hate of the great foe that hurled 

Vainly her strength against the conscience of the world. 

I looked again, or dreamed I looked, and saw 
The stars again and all their peace again. 
The moving mist had gone, and shining still 
The moon went high and pale above the hill. 
Not now those lights were trembling in the vast 
Ways of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth: 



APOCALYPSE 119 

Profound and calm they gazed as the soft-shod hours 

passed. 
And with less fear (not with less awe, 
Remembering, England, all the blood and pain), 
How look, I cried, you stern and solitary stars 
On these disastrous wars! 

John Freeman 
August, 191^ 

A SUMMER MORNING 

The summer meads are fair with daisy-snow, 
White as the dove's wing, flawless as the foam 
On the brown beaches where the breakers comb 

When the long Trades their morning bugles blow; 

And over all there is a golden glow, 

For the sun sits ascendant in the dome; 

And smoke-wreaths rise from many a cottage home 

Where there is peace, and joy's full overflow. 

This is our heritage, but what of those 

Who crouch where Yser's sad, ensanguined tide 

Winds with its sluggish crescents, toward the sea; 
Where Termonde bells are silent, and the wide 
And stricken leagues of Flemish land disclose 
The ruthless wrong, the piteous agony! 

Clinton Scollard 

APOCALYPSE 

The visions of the soul, more strange than dreams, 
Out-mystery sleep. For them, no day redeems, 
And the thing is, but is not as it seems. 



120 REFLECTIONS 

I thought I saw (although I did not sleep) 
A Raft that clomb the surges black and steep 
With One who cursed the dumb God-blinded Deep. 

Red as the eye of anger the Sun set; 

And giant Thunders round him, black as jet, 

Gazed down into those black Deeps they beset; 

And under them and mirroring them, a scud 
Of glassy mountains moved athwart the flood, 
Laced by that last gleam with a foam of blood. 



Then he who lived upon that desperate craft, 
Crown'd and a King, stood forth and kinglike quaff'd 
Red wine, and raised his voice aloud, and laugh'd : 

"Roll on and rot for all thy corpses, Sea, 
That with thy moonsuck'd surges wouldest be 
Lord of the halycon Earth, thine enemy — 

With altercations of great waves and air, 
And sobs and cries of anger, wouldest tear 
Piecemeal her patient fields and all things there. 

Ungovernable god, thee I defy, 

Weak man. Canst thou for all thy rage reply?" . . . 

Then from beneath there came the answer, Aye. 



He heard, but deem'd his thought replied to thought 

And cried again aloud (the red ray caught 

His crown of gold with flaming rubies wrought) : 



A SUMMER MORNING 121 

"Improvident, furious, idle, hot to hate 
Laborious Earth — her unlaborious mate, 
Strong but in anger, in destruction great: 

Her fields and floods, where flow'rs are grown and 

glass'd; 
Thine, where thy mad waves run like things outcast, 
And scarce the staggering petrel braves the blast, 

And no flowers blow but capering crests of spray: 
Confess thyself a god who can but slay." . . . 
But from the deeps the deep Voice answer'd, Nay. 

* 

Half startled, still in reverie unaware, 
He cried again as one who mocks despair; 
And still the surges roll'd and rock'd him there: 

"Then rumble in all thy depths, Leviathan, 
And learn my scorn — thy master and a man. 
So answer me if thou art more and can." . . . 

There came a thrill, a spasm, as when the blow 
Of earthquake runs before the crash, and lo 
The dreadful Voice cried Silence from below. 



He heard, he rose, he laugh'd as if in jest, 
And drank red wine. (The red ray came to rest 
Within the blood-red ruby on his breast) : 

Art thou then there, down there, O damned dumb 
Bold braggard, born to threaten yet succumb — 
For ever overcoming e'er o'ercome? 



122 REFLECTIONS 

What though thou roarest, still I will not bow 
To thee, all-mighty, my God-gifted brow; 
A mortal; yet, immortal, more than thou." 



So said. Night fell. But from the deep below 
A giant Hand emerged, enormous, slow; 
And drew him down. And the Voice answer'd, So. 

Ronald Ross 

FULFILMENT 

"When all the mysteries of life had been fulfilled in them . . ." 

When wars are done, 

And when the splendour of the setting sun 

Goes down serenely on a quiet shore, 

Whose faithful tides for evermore 

Bring in the memory 

Of those who died that life might be: 

When we are grown so tender and so brave, 

That on a bitter grave 

We lay forgiveness, garlanded 

With love and pity, for the alien dead, 

Grieving that they were cruel once and blind, 

Praying that in Thy Light their eyes may find 

The vision of a world that still can be, 

A kinship such as neither they nor we 

Dreamed in the old unshriven days. 

Yea, when divided ways 

Are one, 

A grander world begun : 

When love and tears and laughter are grown deep 

As sacraments, and Mercies never sleep 



TO MY PUPILS 123 

But watch and mourn the dead 

Where they lie comforted: 

And when the heart's warm rain 

Falls on the blessed grain 

Of Brotherhood, when eager sowers fling 

It lavishly and far, that it may spring 

In harvests sweet and wide 

Whose thrilling sheaves are tied 

By hands once enemied: 

When all of this shall be, 

Then, then a second Calvary 

Shall rise; the Mount whereon the price 

Of deathless peace is laid, Man's love and sacrifice. 

A Hill immense, resplendent, high, 

Whence all the ruined earth, the darkened sky 

Shall kindle, and shall burn with phcenix-fire, 

The flame of purged desire. 

G. 0. Warren 

TO MY PUPILS, GONE BEFORE THEIR DAY 

You seemed so young, to know 
So little, those few months or years ago, 
Who may by now have disentwined 
The inmost secrets of the Eternal Mind. 

Yours seemed an easy part, 

To construe, learn some trivial lines by heart : 

Yet to your hands has God assigned 

The burden of the sorrows of mankind. 

You passed the brief school year 
In expectation of some long career, 



124 REFLECTIONS 

Then yielded up all years to find 

That long career that none can leave behind. 

If you had lived, some day 

You would have passed my room, and chanced to say, 

*I wonder if it's worth the grind 

Of all those blunders he has underlined.' 

Perhaps ! if at the end 

You in your turn shall teach me how to mend 

The many errors whose effect 

Eternity awaits us to correct. 

Guy Kendall 

"THESE SHALL PREVAIL" 

War laid bugle to his lips, blew one blast — and then 
The seas answered him with ships, the earth with men. 

Straight, Death caught his sickle up, called his reapers ( 

grim, 
Famine with his empty cup came after him. 

Down the stairs of Paradise hastened angels three, 
Pity, and Self-Sacrifice, and Charity. 

Where the curved, black sickles sweep, where pale 

Famine clings, 
Where gaunt women watch and weep, come these of 

wings. 

When the red wrath perisheth, when the dulled swords 

fail, 
These three who have walked with Death — these 

shall prevail. 



YPRES TOWER, RYE 125 

Hell bade all its millions rise; Paradise sends three: 
Pity, and Self-Sacrifice, and Charity. 

Theodosia Garrison 

MILITARY NECESSITY 

Iscariot, never more thy stricken name 
Sound now the blinded deeps of infamy; 
Nor thy poor hurried, faltering sin shall be 

The world-worn symbol of an utmost shame. 

A thousand years, two thousand, still the same 
Red gleam of torches, ever there to see 
On the gray darkness of Gethsemane ! — 

Now, newer lights outflare their simple flame. 

For you, half-hearted, must limp back to say — 

With but one death of Christ to grieve about ! — 
"Lo, I have sinned, in that I did betray . . . 
Innocent blood." 

Now, — weak with no such doubt, 
Men write: "No hate was here. Our chosen way 
They chose to bar. — 

And they are blotted out." 

Josephine Preston Peabody 

YPRES TOWER, RYE 

Tower of Ypres that watchest, gravely smiling, 

Green marsh-meadows stretching far away, 
With long thoughts of famous deeds beguiling 
March unceasing of the ages gray, 
Once beneath thee 
Swayed the seaweed, churned and foamed the sea. 



126 REFLECTIONS 

Fleet of Frenchman, fleet of Spaniard thundered, 

Victor, vanquished, ? neath your little hill, 
Gaily fearless if they fled or plundered, 
You, who faced our foemen, face them still — 
Now the reeds sigh, 
Young Iambs frolic where tall ships sailed by. 

Tower of Ypres, a little slept your glory, 

Lips again are busy with your name, 
Ypres again is famous in our story, 

Ypres of Flanders, wrapt in blood and flame — 
Here the spring song, 
There black ruin, hate and death and wrong. 

Dear gray Sussex town, your childlike beauty, 

Passing price and more desired than gold, 
Speaks to English souls of love, and duty 
Faithful in the little wars of old — 
In our hearts still 

Live your dreaming fens, your bastioned hill. 

Everard Owen 
April, 1917 

KAISER AND COUNSELLOR 

(On First Looking into Bernhardi's 
Our Next War) 

I 

Through what dark pass to what place in the sun 
Dost thou, misguided Moses, lead this folk? 
What rest remains when wayfaring is done? 
What clearer skies beyond the cannon-smoke? 



THE HIDDEN WEAVER 127 

Say not he triumphs, though his trampling host, 
That knows above his nation's lust no law, 
From inland village to the fearful coast 
Still treads the peaceful peoples red and raw. 
Nay, pity him the banded friends abhor, 
Who sees — the tragic fool and slave of state — 
Behind him stretch the sterile wastes of war, 
Before, a widening wilderness of hate, 

While all the world lifts up one wrathful cry 
To give this Prussian Machiavel the lie. 

II 

White mouths that clamor for the unreaped wheat, 
Frail hands that clasp the unresponsive dead, 
Brave Belgian hearts, unconquered in defeat, 
Dispeopled, exiled King: be comforted. 
Though we close not the assaulted gates of sense 
To shrieking towns, the gurgle of great ships 
In drowning agonies, the fields immense 
Horrid with shuddering limbs and writhen lips, 
Yet since your woe has wrought this lift and swell 
Of worldwide pity, love, and chivalry, 
We say the awful sacrifice is well. 
The old law holds; on this new Calvary 

Humanity, uplifted, crucified, 

Still draws all hearts unto its wounded side. 

Stuart P. Sherman 

THE HIDDEN WEAVER 

There where he sits in the cold, in the gloom, 
Of his far-away place by his thundering loom, 
He weaves on the shuttles of day and of night 
The shades of our sorrow and shapes of delight. 



128 REFLECTIONS 

He has wrought him a glimmering garment to fling 

Over the sweet swift limbs of the Spring, 

He has woven a fabric of wonder to be 

For a blue and a billowy robe to the sea, 

He has fashioned in sombre funereal dyes 

A tissue of gold for the midnight skies. 

But sudden the woof turns all to red. 

Has he lost his craft? Has he snapped his thread? 

Sudden the web all sanguine runs. 

Does he hear the yell of the thirsting guns? 

While the scarlet crimes and the crimson sins 

Grow from the dizzying outs and ins 

Of the shuttle that spins, does he see it and feel? 

Or is he the slave of a tyrannous wheel? 

Inscrutable faces, mysterious eyes, 

Are watching him out of the drifting skies; 

Exiles of chaos crowd through the gloom 

Of the uttermost cold to that thundering room 

And whisper and peer through the dusk to mark 

What thing he is weaving there in the dark. 

Will he leave the loom that he won from them 

And rend his fabric from hem to hem? 

Is he weaving with daring and skill sublime 

A wonderful winding-sheet for time? 

Ah, but he sits in a darkling place, 

Hiding his hands, hiding his face, 

Hiding his art behind the shine 

Of the web that he weaves so long and fine. 

Loudly the great wheel hums and rings 

And we hear not even the song that he sings. 



SHADOWS AND LIGHTS 129 

Over the whirr of the shuttles and all 

The roar and the rush, does he hear when we call? 

Only the colors that grow and glow 

Swift as the hurrying shuttles go, 

Only the figures vivid or dim 

That flow from the hastening hands of him, 

Only the fugitive shapes are we, 

Wrought in the web of eternity. 

Odell Shepard 



SHADOWS AND LIGHTS 

What gods have met in battle to arouse 

This whirling shadow of invisible things, 

These hosts that writhe amid the shattered sods? 

O Father, and O Mother of the gods, 

Is there some trouble in the heavenly house? 

We who are captained by its unseen kings 

Wonder what thrones are shaken in the skies, 

What powers who held dominion o'er our will 

Let fall the sceptre, and what destinies 

The younger gods may drive us to fulfil. 

Have they not swayed us, earth's invisible lords, 

With whispers and with breathings from the dark ? 

The very border stones of nations mark 

Where silence swallowed some wild prophet's words 

That rang but for an instant and were still, 

Yet were so burthened with eternity, 

They maddened all who heard to work their will, 

To raise the lofty temple on the hill, 



130 REFLECTIONS 

And many a glittering thicket of keen swords 
Flashed out to make one law for land and sea, 
That earth might move with heaven in company. 

The cities that to myriad beauty grew 

Were altars raised unto old gods who died, 

And they were sacrificed in ruins to 

The younger gods who took their place of pride; 

They have no brotherhood, the deified, 

No high companionship of throne by throne, 

But will their beauty still to be alone. 

What is a nation but a multitude 
United by some god-begotten mood, 
Some hope of liberty or dream of power 
That have not with each other brotherhood 
But warred in spirit from their natal hour, 
Their hatred god-begotten as their love, 
Reverberations of eternal strife? 
For all that fury breathed in human life, 
Are ye not guilty, answer, ye above? 

Ah, no, the circle of the heavenly ones, 

That ring of burning, grave, inflexible powers, 

Array in harmony amid the deep 

The shining legionaries of the suns, 

That through their day from dawn to twilight keep 

The peace of heaven, and have no feuds like ours. 

The Morning Stars their labours of the dawn 

Close at the advent of the Solar Kings, 

And these with joy their sceptres yield, withdrawn 

When the still Evening Stars begin their reign, 

And twilight time is thrilled with homing wings 

To the All-Father being turned again. 



SHADOWS AND LIGHTS 131 

No, not on high begin divergent ways, 
The galaxies of interlinked lights 
Rejoicing on each other's beauty gaze, 
'T is we who do make errant all the rays 
That stream upon us from the astral heights. 
Love in our thickened air too redly burns; 
And unto vanity our beauty turns; 
Wisdom, that softly whispers us to part 
From evil, swells to hatred in the heart. 
Dark is the shadow of invisible things 
On us who look not up, whose vision fails. 
The glorious shining of the heavenly kings 
To mould us to their image naught avails, 
They weave a robe of many-coloured fire 
To garb the spirits moving in the deep, 
And in the upper air its splendours keep 
Pure and unsullied, but below it trails 
Darkling and glimmering in our earthly mire. 

Our eyes are ever earthwards: We are swayed 

But by the shadows of invisible light, 

And shadow against shadow is arrayed 

So that one dark may dominate the night. 

Though kinsmen are the lights that cast the shade, 

We look not up, nor see how, side by side, 

The high originals of all our pride 

In crowned and sceptred brotherhood are throned, 

Compassionate of our blindness and our hate 

That own the godship but the love disowned. 

Ah, let us for a little while abate 

The outward roving eye, and seek within 

Where spirit unto spirit is allied; 



132 REFLECTIONS 

There, in our inmost being, we may win 
The joyful vision of the heavenly wise 
To see the beauty in each other's eyes. 

A. E. 



THE BUGLER 

God dreamed a man; 
Then, having firmly shut 
Life, like a precious metal in his fist, 
Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin 
Our various divinity and sin — 
For some to ploughshares did the metal twist, 
And others — dreaming Empires — straightway cut 
Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat 
Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet 
Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dare to boast 
That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most 
Did with it — simply nothing. (Here again 
Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain 
Metal unmarred, to each man more or less, 
Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness. 
For me, I do but bear within my hand 
(For sake of Him, our Lord, now long forsaken) 
A simple bugle such as may awaken 
With one high morning note a drowsing man : 
That wheresoe'er within my motherland 
The sound may come, 't will echo far and wide, 
Like pipes of battle calling up a clan, 
Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side. 

F. W. Harvey 

[Written in a German prison camp.] 



NON-COMBATANTS 133 

NON-COMBATANTS 

Never of us be said 

That we reluctant stood 

As sullen children, and refused to dance 

To the keen pipe that sounds across the fields of 

France. 
Though shrill the note and wild, 
Though hard the steps and slow, 
The dancing floor defiled, 
The measure full of woe, 
And dread 

The solemn figure that the dancers tread, 
We faltered not. Of us, this word shall not be said. 
Never of us be said 
We had no war to wage, 
Because our womanhood, 
Because the weight of age, 
Held us in servitude. 
None sees us fight, 
Yet we in the long night 
Battle to give release 

To all whom we must send to seek and die for peace. 
When they have gone, we in a twilit place 
Meet Terror face to face, 
And strive 

With him, that we may save our fortitude alive. 
Theirs be the hard, but ours the lonely bed. 
Nought were we spared — of us, this word shall not 

be said. 
Never of us be said 

We failed to give Godspeed to our adventurous dead. 
Not in self -pitying mood 



134 REFLECTIONS 

We saw them go, 

When they set forth on those spread wings of pain: 

So glad, so young, 

As birds whose fairest lays are yet unsung 

Dart to the height 

And thence pour down their passion of delight, 

Their passing into melody was turned. 

So were our hearts uplifted from the low, 

Our griefs to rapture burned; 

And, mounting with the music of that throng, 

Cutting a path athwart infinity, 

Our puzzled eyes 

Achieved the healing skies 

To find again 

Each winged spirit as a speck of song 

Embosomed in Thy deep eternity. 

Though from our homely fields that feathered joy has 

fled 
We murmur not. Of us, this word shall not be said. 

Evelyn Underhill 

*"THE RED CHRISTMAS 

("In these days even our wedding bells ring with a sombre and muffled 
sound." — Mr. Asquith, in the Speaker's Library, November 25, 1915.) 

O take away the mistletoe 
And bring the holly berry, 
For all the lads are gone away 
And all the girls look sad to-day, 
There 's no one left with them to play, 
And only birds and babes and things unknowing 
Dare be merry. 
Then take away the mistletoe 
And bring the holly berry. 



THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS 135 

But oh its leaves are fresh and green, 
Why bring the holly berry? 
Because it wears the red, red hue, 
The colour to the season true, 
When war must have his tribute due, 
And only birds and babes and things unknowing 
Can be merry. 
So take away the mistletoe, 
Yet keep the holly berry. 

And shall we never see again 
Aught but the holly berry? 
Yes, after sacrifice sublime, 
When rings some later Christmas chime, 
When dawns the new and better time, 
Not only birds and babes and things unknowing 
Shall be merry, 

But you shall see the mistletoe 
Twined with the holly berry. 

W. H. Draper 

"THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS" 

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, 
And swallows calling with their shimmering sound; 

And frogs in the pools singing at night, 
And wild-plum trees in tremulous white; 

Robins will wear their feathery fire 
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; 

And not one will know of the war, not one 
Will care at last when it is done. 



136 REFLECTIONS 

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, 
If mankind perished utterly; 

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, 
Would scarcely know that we were gone. 

Sara Teasdale 



BOIS-ETOILE 

What legend of a star that fell 

In falchion flight from heavenly flame 

Brought to some poet-peasant's mind 
The haunting sweetness of thy name? 

War marked thee in thy sylvan sleep — 
A spoil too pure for Hell to spare — 

Seamed earth, stark, splintered trunks, proclaim 
That Bois-Etoile once was fair. 

O wrecked and ravaged Wood of Stars ! 

The lights that named thee have not set! 
In lovelier groves than even thine 

France forges victory from them yet! 

O green place on a glorious earth, 

Thine, too, the martyr's meed shall be; 

With Rheims and Ypres, there shall be found 
A space on History's page for thee. 

Nor shalt thou lose thine olden trick — 
The winds of Peace thy leaves shall stir; 

(Unbudded Aprils yearn, adream, 
To keep dead springtides' trysts with her!) 

Ethel M. Hewitt 



GOING TO THE FRONT 137 

GOING TO THE FRONT 

I had no heart to march for war 

When trees were bare and fell the snow; 
To go to-day is easier far 

When pink and white the orchards blow, 
While cuckoo calls and from the lilac bush 
Carols at peace the well-contented thrush. 

For now the gorse is all in flower, 

The chestnut tapers light the morn, 
Gold gleam the oaks, the sun has power 
To robe the glittering plain with corn; 
I hear from all the land of hope a voice 
That bids me forward bravely and rejoice. 

So merry are the lambs at play, 

So cheerfully the cattle feed, 
With such security the May 

Has built green walls round every mead, 
O'er happy roofs such grey old church-towers 

peep, 
Who would not fight these dear, dear homes to 
keep? 

For hawthorn wreath, for bluebell glade, 

For miles of buttercup that shine, 
For song of birds in sun and shade 
That fortify this soul of mine, 
For all May joy beneath an English sky, 
How sweet to live — how glad and good to die! 
Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley 



138 REFLECTIONS 



DESPOTISMS 
L The Motor: 1905 

From hedgerows where aromas fain would be 

New volleyed odours execrably rise; 

The flocks, with hell-smoke in their patient eyes, 
Into the ditch from bawling ruin flee: 
Spindrift of one abominated sea 

Along all roads in wrecking fury flies 

Till on young strangled leaf, on bloom that dies, 
In this far plot it writes a rime for me. 

Vast intimate tyranny! Nature dispossessed 
Helplessly hates thee, whose symbolic flare 

Lights up (with what reiterance unblest!) 
Entrails of horror in a world thought fair. 

False God of pastime thou, vampire of rest, 
Augur of what pollution, what despair? 

II. The War: 1915 

Speed without ruth, seedsman of vile success, 
Accustomed sight to ne'er-accustomed view! 
Am I not vindicate who strongly knew 

Some portent there of pregnant ugliness? 

The dooms are in; my soul hath won her guess. 

, That which formed thee and franchised, had the cue 
To push all rudeness forward, and was due 

To spawn ere long the sovereign menace. Yes, 

Horror has come, has come ! Horror set high, 
And drunk with boundless access, whirls amain : 



DESPOTISMS 139 

Lost on the wind is Belgia's holy cry, 

And Poland's hope shrinks underground again, 

And France is singing to her wounds, where lie 
The golden English heads like harvest grain. 

Louise Imogen Guiney 

THE CHOICE 

The Kings go by with jewelled crowns; 
Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their 

spears are many. 
The sack of many-peopled towns 
Is all their dream: 
The way they take 
Leaves but a ruin in the brake, 
And, in the furrow that the ploughmen make, 
A stampless penny; a tale, a dream. 

The Merchants reckon up their gold, 

Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights 

are glories: 
The profits of their treasures sold 
They tell and sum; 
Their foremen drive 
Their servants, starved to half -alive, 
Whose labours do but make the earth a hive 
Of stinking glories; a tale, a dream. 

The Priests are singing in their stalls, 

Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their 

praying clamours; 
Yet God is as the sparrow falls, 
The ivy drifts; 



140 REFLECTIONS 

The votive urns 

Are all left void when Fortune turns, 
The god is but a marble for the kerns 
To break with hammers; a tale, a dream. 

O Beauty, let me know again 

The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet 

waters figuring sky, 
The one star risen. 
So shall I pass into the feast 
Not touched by King, Merchant, or Priest; 
Know the red spirit of the beast, 
Be the green grain; 
Escape from prison. 

John Masefield 



INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 



*^THE CALL 

Hark ! 'T is the rush of the horses, 
The crash of the galloping gun! 

The stars are out of their courses; 
The hour of Doom has begun. 

Leap from thy scabbard, O sword! 

This is the Day of the Lord! 

Prate not of peace any longer, 
Laughter and idlesse and ease! 

Up, every man that is stronger! 
Leave but the priest on his knees! 

Quick, every hand to the hilt! 

Who striketh not — his the guilt ! 

Call not each man on his brother! 

Cry not to Heaven to save! 
Thou art the man — not another — 

Thou, to off glove and out glaive! 
Fight ye who ne'er fought before! 
Fight ye old fighters the more! 

Oh, but the thrill and the splendour, 
The sudden new knowledge — I can! 

To fawn on no hireling defender, 
But fight one's own fight as a man! 

On woman's love won we set store; 

To win one's own manhood is more. 

Who hath a soul that will glow not, 
Set face to face with the foe? 



144 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

"Is life worth living?" — I know not: 

Death is worth dying, I know. 
Aye, I would gamble with Hell, 
And — losing such stakes — say, 'T is well ! 

F. W. Bourdillon 

*TRONT LINE 

Standing on the fire-step, 

Harking into the dark, 
The black was filled with figures 

His comrade could not mark. 
Because it was softly snowing, 

Because it was Christmastide, 
He saw three figures passing 

Glittering in their pride. 

One rode a cream-white camel, 

One was a blackamoor, 
One a bearded Persian; 

They all rode up to the door. 
They all rode up to the stable-door, 

Dismounted, and bent the knee. 
The door flamed open like a rose, 

But more he could not see. 

Standing on the fire-step 

In softly falling snow, 
It came to him — the carol — 

Out of the long ago. 
He heard the glorious organ 

Fill transept, loft, and nave. 
He faintly heard the pulpit words: 

" Himself he could not save." 



IN GALLIPOLI 145 

And all the wires in No-man's-land 

Seemed thrummed by ghostly thumbs; 
There woke then such a harping 

As when a hero comes, 
As when a hero homeward comes — 

And then his thought was back : 
He leaned against the parapet 

And peered into the black. 

William Rose Benet 



IN GALLIPOLI 

There is a fold of lion-coloured earth, 
With stony feet in the iEgean blue, 
Whereon of old dwelt loneliness and dearth 
Sun-scorched and desolate; and when there flew 
The winds of winter in those dreary aisles 
Of crag and cliff, a whirling snow-wreath bound 
The foreheads of the mountains, and their miles 
Of frowning precipice and scarp were wound 
With stilly white, that peered through brooding 
mist profound. 

But now the nryrtle and the rosemary, 
The mastic and the rue, the scented thyme 
With fragrant fingers gladdening the grey, 
Shall kindle on a desert grown sublime. 
Henceforth that haggard land doth guard and hold 
The treasure of a sovereign nation's womb — 
Her fame, her worth, her pride, her purest gold. 
Oh, call ye not the sleeping place a tomb 
That lifts to heaven's light such everlasting bloom. 



146 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

They stretch, now high, now low, the little scars 
Upon the rugged pelt of herb and stone; 
Above them sparkle bells and buds and stars 
Young Spring hath from her emerald kirtle thrown. 
Asphodel, crocus and anemone 
With silver, azure, crimson once again 
Ray all that earth, and from the murmuring sea 
Come winds to flash the leaves on shore and plain 
Where evermore our dead — our radiant dead 
shall reign. 

Imperishable as the mountain height 
That marks their place afar, their numbers shine, 
Who, with the first-fruits of a joyful might, 
To human liberty another shrine 
Here sanctified; nor vainly have they sped 
That made this desert dearer far than home, 
And left one sanctuary more to tread 
For England, whose memorial pathways roam 
Beside her hero sons, beneath the field and foam. 

Eden Phillpotts 

[From Plain Song, 1914-1916. Reprinted by permission of William Heine- 
mann, London; and The Macmillan Company, New York.] 



THE LAST RALLY 

(Under England's supplementary Conscription Act, the last of the married 
men joined her colors on June 24, 1916.) 

In the midnight, in the rain, 

That drenches every sooty roof and licks each 

window-pane, 
The bugles blow for the last rally 
Once again. 



THE LAST RALLY 147 

Through the horror of the night, 

Where glimmers yet northwestward one ghostly strip 

of white, 
Squelching with heavy boots through the untrodden 

plowlands, 
The troops set out. Eyes right! 

These are the last who go because they must, 

Who toiled for years at something leveled now in 

dust; 
Men of thirty, married, settled, who had built up walls 

of comfort 
That crumbled at a thrust. 

Now they have naked steel, 

And the heavy, sopping rain that the clammy skin can 

feel, 
And the leaden weight of rifle and the pack that grinds 

the entrails, 
Wrestling with a half-cooked meal. 

And there are oaths and blows, 
The mud that sticks and flows, 
The bad and smoky billet, and the aching legs at 

morning, 
And the frost that numbs the toes; 

And the senseless, changeless grind, 

And the pettifogging mass of orders muddling every 

mind, 
And the dull-red smudge of mutiny half rising up and 

burning, 
Till they choke and stagger blind. 



148 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

But for them no bugle flares; 

No bright flags leap, no gay horizon glares; 

They are conscripts, middle-aged, rheumatic, cautious, 

weary, 
With slowly thinning hairs; 

Only for one to-night 

A woman weeps and moans and tries to smite 
Her head against a table, and another rocks a cradle, 
And another laughs with flashing eyes, sitting bolt 
upright. 

John Gould Fletcher 

RICHMOND PARK 

The thorns were blooming red and white, 
The blue air throbbed with May's delight; 
To live was joy. Loud sang the lark 
Of peace and love in Richmond Park. 

Our crippled soldiers took the sun, 
Glad that their bloody work was done; 
Being free to feel the morning's charm, 
They grudged no loss of leg or arm. 

The yaffles dipped from glade to glade — 
Quick gleams of gold and green. I made 
A song in my heart. Each hour inspires 
Lit by the rhododendron fires. 

The cuckoo called : his ancient note 
Stirred the world's soul; and mine it smote 
With pain. He quested in sad trees 
Whose dead limbs shewed their tragedies. 



INFANTRY 149 



Yet something of a happier time — 
When oaks could flourish in the prime 
Of spring — came back to all who heard 
The morning voiceful in that bird. 

Suddenly boomed a gun. Less bright 
The landscape grew: a droning flight 
Of man-birds scared a singing lark, 
And a yaffle laughed in Richmond Park. 

Rowland Thirlmere 



INFANTRY 

[Reprinted by permission of the Proprietors of Punch.] 

In Paris Town, in Paris Town — 't was 'neath an 

April sky — 
I saw a regiment of the line go marching to Versailles; 
When white along the Bois there shone the chestnut's 

waxen cells, 
And the sun was winking on the long Lebels, 
Flic flac, flic flac, on all the long Lebels ! 

The flowers were out along the Bois, the leaves were 

overhead, 
And I saw a regiment of the line that swung in blue 

and red; 
The youth of things, the joy of things, they made my 

heart to beat, 
And the quick-step lilting and the tramp of feet! 
Flic flac, flic flac, the tramping of the feet! 

The spiked nuts have fallen and the leaf is dull and dry 
Since last I saw a regiment go marching to Versailles; 



150 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

And what's become of all of those that heard the 

music play? 
They trained them for the Frontier upon an August day; 
Flic flac, flic flac, all on an August day! 

And some of them they stumbled on the slippery 

summer grass, 
And there they've left them lying with their faces to 

Alsace; 
The others — so they'd tell you — ere the chestnut's 

decked for Spring, 
Shall march beneath some linden trees to call upon a 

King; 
Flic flac y flic flac , to call upon a King. 

Patrick R. Chalmers 



THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA * 

[St. Barbara is the patroness of artillery, and of those who are in fear of 
sudden death.] 

When the long gray lines came flooding upon Paris in 

the plain, 
We stood and drank of the last free air we never could 

love again ; 
They had led us back from a lost battle, to halt we 

knew not where, 
And stilled us; and our gaping guns were dumb with 

our despair. 
The gray tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless 

lands, 
And a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his 

hands : 
1 Written on the anniversary of the Battle of the Marne. 



THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA 151 

"There was an end to Ilium; and an end came to 

Rome; 
And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he 

calls home. 
Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling 

floor, 
That lead to a low door at last : and beyond there is no 

door." 

The Breton to the Norman spoke, like a little child 

spake he, 
But his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside 

the sea: 
"There are more windows in one house than there are 

eyes to see; 
There are more doors in a man's house, but God has 

hid the key; 
Ruin is a builder of windows; her legend witnesseth 
Barbara, the saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden 

death." 

It seemed the wheel of the worlds stood still an 
instant in its turning, 
More than the kings of the earth that turned 
with the turning of Valmy mill, 
While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes 
were burning, 
Still as the heart of a whirlwind, the heart of 
the world stood still. 

"Barbara the beautiful had praise of lute and pen, 
Her hair was like a summer night, dark and desired of 
men, 



152 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

Her feet like birds from far away that linger and light 

in doubt, 
And her face was like a window where a man's first 

love looked out. 

"Her sire was master of many slaves, a hard man of 

his hands; 
They built a tower about her in the desolate golden 

lands, 
Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs, planned with 

an ancient plan, 
And set two windows in the tower, like the two eyes of 

a man." 

Our guns were set toward the foe; we had no word 
for firing; 
Gray in the gateways of St. Gond the Guard 
of the tyrant shone; 
Dark with the fate of a falling star, retiring and 
retiring, 
The Breton line went backwards and the 
Breton tale went on. 

" Her father had sailed across the sea from the harbour 

of Africa, 
When all the slaves took up their tools for the bidding 

of Barbara; 
She smote the bare wall with her hand, and bade them 

smite again, 
She poured them wealth of wine and meat to stay 

them in their pain, 
And cried through the lifted thunder of thronging 

hammer and hod : 



THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA 153 

* Throw open the third window in the third name of 
God!' 

Then the hearts failed and the tools fell; and far to- 
ward the foam 

Men saw a shadow on the sands; and her father coming 
home." 

Speak low and low, along the line the whispered 
word is flying, 
Before the touch, before the time, we may 
not lose a breath. 
Their guns must mash us to the mire and there be 
no replying 
Till the hand is raised to fling us for the final 
dice to Death. 

"'There were two windows in your tower, Barbara, 

Barbara, 
For all between the sun and moon in the lands of Africa 
Hath a man three eyes, Barbara, a bird three wings, 
That you have riven roof and wall to look upon vain 

things?' 
Her voice was like a wandering thing that falters, yet 

is free, 
Whose soul has drunk in a distant land of the rivers of 

liberty. 
'There are more wings than the wind knows, or eyes 

than see the sun, 
In the light of the lost window and the wind of the 

doors undone; 
For out of the first lattice are the red lands that 

break, 
And out of the second lattice, sea like a green snake, 



154 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

But out of the third lattice, under low eaves like wings 
Is a new corner of the sky and the other side of things.' ' 

It opened in the inmost place an instant beyond 
uttering, 
A casement and a chasm and a thunder of 
doors undone, 
A seraph's strong wing shaken out the shock of its 
unshuttering 
That split the shattered sunlight from a light 
behind the sun. 

"Then he drew sword and drave her where the judges 

sat and said: 
* Csesar sits above the Gods, Barbara the maid, 
Caesar hath made a treaty with the moon and with the 

sun, 
All the gods that men can praise, praise him every one. 
There is peace with the anointed of the scarlet oils of Bel, 
With the Fish God, where the whirlpool is a winding 

stair to hell, 
With the pathless pyramids of slime, where the mitred 

negro lifts 
To his black cherub in the cloud abominable gifts, 
With the leprous silver cities where the dumb priests 

dance and nod, 
But not with the three windows and the last name of 

God.'" 

They are firing, we are falling, and the red skies 
rend and shiver us . . . 
Barbara, Barbara, we may not loose a 
breath — 



THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA 155 

Be at the bursting doors of doom, and in the dark 
deliver us, 
Who loosen the last window on the sun of 
sudden death. 

"Barbara the beautiful stood up as a queen set free, 
Whose mouth is set to a terrible cup and the trumpet 

of liberty: 
*I have looked forth from a window that no man now 

shall bar, 
Caesar's toppling battle-towers shall never stretch so 

far; 
The slaves are dancing in their chains, the child laughs 

at the rod, 
Because of the bird of the three wings, and the third 

face of God.' 
The sword upon his shoulder shifted and shone and 

fell, 
And Barbara lay very small and crumpled like a shell." 

What wall upon what hinges turned stands open 
like a door? 
Too simple for the sight of faith, too huge for 
human eyes, 
What light upon what ancient way shines to a far- 
off floor, 
The line of the lost land of France or the 
plains of Paradise? 

"Caesar smiled above the gods, his lip of stone was 

curled, 
His iron armies wound like chains round and round the 

world, 



156 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

And the strong slayer of his own that cut down flesh 

for grass, 
Smiled too, and went to his own tower like a walking 

tower of brass, 
And the songs ceased and the slaves were dumb; and 

far towards the foam 
Men saw a shadow on the sands; and her father coming 

home. . . . 

"Blood of his blood upon the sword stood red but 

never dry, 
He wiped it slowly, till the blade was blue as the blue 

sky: 
But the blue sky split with a thunder-crack, spat down 

a blinding brand, 
And all of him lay black and flat as his shadow on the 

sand." 

The touch and the tornado; all our guns give 
tongue together, 
St. Barbara for the gunnery and God defend 
the right — 
They are stopped and gapped and battered as 
we blast away the weather, 
Building window upon window to our lady 
of the light; 
For the light is come on Liberty, her foes are fall- 
ing, falling, 
They are reeling, they are running, as the 
shameful years have run, 
She is risen for all the humble, she has heard 
the conquered calling, 
St. Barbara of the Gunners, with her hand 
upon the gun. 



THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA 157 



They are burst asunder in the midst that eat of 
their own flatteries, 
Whose lip is curled to order as its barbered 
hair is curled . . . 
— Blast of the beauty of sudden death, St. Bar- 
bara of the batteries! 
That blow the new white window in the wall 
of all the world. 

For the hand is raised behind us, and the bolt smites 

hard, 
Through the rending of the doorways, through the 

death-gap of the Guard, 
For the shout of the Three Colours is in Conde and 

beyond, 
And the Guard is flung for carrion in the graveyard of 

St. Gond; 
Through Mondemont and out of it, through Morin 

marsh and on, 
With earthquake of salutation the impossible thing is 

gone; 
Gaul, charioted and charging, great Gaul upon a gun, 
Tiptoe on all her thousand years, and trumpeting to 

the sun, 
As day returns, as death returns, swung backward for 

a span, 
Back on the barbarous reign returns the battering-ram 

of Man. 

While that the east held hard and hot like pincers in a 

forge, 
Came like the west wind roaring up the cannon of St. 

George, 



158 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

Where the hunt is up and racing over stream and 
swamp and tarn, 

And their batteries, black with battle, hold the bridge- 
heads of the Marne; 

And across the carnage of the Guard by Paris in the 
plain 

The Normans to the Bretons cried; and the Bretons 
cheered again; 

But he that told the tale went home to his house beside 
the sea 

And burned before St. Barbara, the light of the win- 
dows three. 

Three candles for an unknown thing, never to come 
again, 

That opened like the eye of God on Paris in the plain. 

Gilbert Keith Chesterton 



FROM A TRENCH 

Out here the dogs of war run loose, 

Their whipper-in is Death; 
Across the spoilt and battered fields 

We hear their sobbing breath. 
The fields where grew the living corn 

Are heavy with our dead; 
Yet still the fields at home are green 

And I have heard it said : 

That — 
There are crocuses at Nottingham ! 
Wild crocuses at Nottingham ! 
Blue crocuses at Nottingham! 
Though here the grass is red. 



HENRI 159 

There are little girls at Nottingham 

Who do not dread the Boche, 
Young girls at school at Nottingham 

(Lord! how I need a wash!). 
There are little boys at Nottingham 

Who never hear a gun; 
There are silly fools at Nottingham 

Who think we're here for fun. 

When — 
There are crocuses at Nottingham! 
Young crocus buds at Nottingham! 
Thousands of buds at Nottingham 
Ungathered by the Hun. 

But here we trample down the grass 

Into a purple slime; 
There lives no tree to give the birds 

House room in pairing-time. 
We live in holes, like cellar rats, 

But through the noise and smell 
I often see those crocuses 

Of which the people tell. 

Why! 
There are crocuses at Nottingham! 
Bright crocuses at Nottingham! 
Real crocuses at Nottingham ! 
Because we 're here in Hell. 

Maud Anna Bell 

% HENRI 

To-night I drifted to the restaurant 
We scribblers fancy, finding it unchanged 
Save that I saw no more my dapper friend, 



160 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

The waiter Henri. When I asked for him, 
"Gone to the War," another waiter said. . . . 

"Gone to the War!" That man, so mild a part 

Of peace and its traditions ! Debonair, 

Childlike, alert, and none too strong, we'd thought. 

He who had served so deftly, and, secure, 

Had walked the beaten path and sheltered ways — 

He now was with the cannon and the kings ! 

Gentle he was, and ever with a smile. 

Ah! wears he still a smile? For now his soul 

Has taken iron, and stood forth austere, 

Made suddenly acquainted with despair, 

And pain, and horror, and the timeless things. 

I called him once, and he unhurried came; 

And now he hurries at Another's beck — 

Ancient, enormous, immemorial War — 

And, past the trampled valley of the Meuse, 

Finds a red service in the day's vast hall 

Of thunders, and in night's domain of death 

Attends, unless he too be of the dead. 

And I sit here beneath the harmless lights! 

O simple soul War's hands laid hold upon 
And led to devastations, and the shock 
Of legions, and the rumble of huge guns, 
And crash and lightning of the rended shells, 
Above a region veined and pooled with blood ! 
You now have part with all intrepid youth 
That took, in ages past, the battle-line, 
And in a mighty Cause had faith and love. 
You are the hero now, and I the sheep! 
And quietly beneath the pleasant lamps 



ROMANCE 161 



I sit, and wonder how you fare to-night. 

It's midnight now in France. Perhaps you find 

Uneasy slumber; or perhaps, entrenched, 

You wait the night attack across the rain. 

Perhaps, my friend, they've made your bed with 

spades ! 
And I sit moody here, remembering, 
As careless men and women rise and go, 
I never asked you if you had a wife. 

George Sterling 



ROMANCE 

Old orchard crofts of Picardy, 

In the high warm winds of May, 
Tossed into blossomed billowings, 

And spattered the roads with spray. 
Over the earth the scudding cloud, 
And the laverock whistling high, 
Lifted the drooping heart of the lad 

At one bound to the sky. 
France ! France ! and the old romance 

Came over him like a spell; 
Homesickness and his weariness 
Shook from him then and fell; 

For he was again with d'Artagnan; 

With Alan Breck and d'Artagnan; 
And the pipes before him gleefully 
Were playing airs of Pan. 

Through dust that in a mist uprose 
From under the tramping feet, 



162 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

He saw old storied places, dim 

In the haze of the summer heat. 
Menace and ambush, wounds and death, 

Lurked in the ditch and wood, 
But he, high-breasted, walked in joy 

With a glorious multitude; 
Great hearts that never perish, 

Nor grow old with the aches of Time, 
Marched through the morning with him, 
All in a magic clime; 

But loved of all was d'Artagnan, 

And Alan the kith of kings, 
Fond comrades of his childhood's days, 
Still on their wanderings. 

From miry clefts of the wintry plain 

He leapt with his platoon, 
The morion on his forehead, 

And the soul of him at noon; 
With head high to the hurricane 

He walked, and in his breast 
He knew himself immortal, 

And that death was but a jest. 
A smile was on his visage 

When they found him where he fell, 
The gallant old companions, 
In an amaranthine dell. 

"Lad o' my heart!" cried Alan Breck, 

"Well done thy first campaign!" 
"Sleep thou till morn," said d'Artagnan, 
"When we three march again!" 

Neil Munro 



THE RECRUIT 163 

THE RECRUIT 

His mother bids him go without a tear; 

His sweetheart walks beside him, proudly gay, 
"No coward have I loved," her clear eyes say — 

The band blares out and all the townsfolk cheer. 

Yet in his heart he thinks: "I am afraid! 

I am afraid of Fear — how can I tell 

If in the ordeal 't will go ill or well? 
How can man tell how bravely man is made?" 

Steady he waits, obeying brisk command, 

Head up, chin firm, and every muscle steeled, — 
Thinking; "I shot a rabbit in a field 

And sickened at its blood upon my hand." 

The sky is blue and little winds blow free, 
He catches up his comrades' marching-song; 
Their bayonets glitter as they sweep along — 

("How ghastly a red bayonet must be!") 

How the folk stare! His comrade on the right 
Whispers a joke — is gay and debonair, 
Sure of himself and quite at odds with care; — 

But does he, too, turn restlessly at night? 

From each familiar scene his inner eye 

Turns to far fields by Titans rent and torn; 
For in that struggle must his soul be born, 

To look upon itself and live — or die ! 

Isabel Ecclestone Mackay 



164 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

CHANNEL SUNSET 

Over the shallow, angry English Channel, 
Clouds like cavalry masses 
Gallop at a charge, dark tawny horsemen, 
Towards the coast of Flanders. 

The sun strikes out amid them 
A shower of golden arrows; 
They waver suddenly in mid-flight, 
Break their ranks, stumble and fall, 
And cover with scarlet eddies 
The shallows of the sea. 

But over their heads new masses yet come charging 
Towards the coast of Flanders; 
Towards the battle that is shaping, 
The struggle of burning spears in the cold twilight. 

John Gould Fletcher 

PIERROT AT WAR 

A year ago in Carnival 

We danced till break of day; 

A year ago in Carnival 

The boulevards were gay; 

And roses shook the whispering air, 

Like a great sibilant soft fanfare. 

In Carnival, in Carnival, 

A Prince of Magic comes, 

To the sound of fifes, and the sound of horns, 

And the sound of little drums. 



AT THE MOVIES 165 

A year ago in Carnival, 

The lamps along the quays 

Lay softer on the misty night 

Than stars in leafy trees, 

And down the ribboned sparkling street 

Pierrot ran on twinkling feet. 

Ah year ! — There is no Carnival : 

The north burns dusky red, 

And on the white of Pierrot's brow . 

Is a long scar instead; 

While ever the muttering runs 

From the bleeding lips of the guns. 

This year, this year at Carnival 
A Prince of Magic comes, 
With blood-red crest against the sky 
And a snarl of angry drums. 

Maxwell Struthers Burt 

AT THE MOVIES 

They swing across the screen in brave array, 
Long British columns grinding the dark grass. 

Twelve months ago they marched into the gray 
Of battle; yet again behold them pass! 

One lifts his dusty cap; his hair is bright; 

I meet his eyes, eager and young and bold. 
The picture quivers into ghostly white; 

Then I remember, and my heart grows cold! 
Florence Ripley Mastin 
January, 1916 



166 INCIDENTS AND ASPECTS 

HIGH SUMMER 

Pinks and syringa in the garden closes, 
And the sweet privet hedge and golden roses, 
The pines hot in the sun, the drone of the bee, 
They die in Flanders to keep these for me. 

The long sunny days and the still weather, 
The cuckoo and blackbird shouting together, 
The lambs calling their mothers out on the lea, 
They die in Flanders to keep these for me. 

All doors and windows open : the South wind blowing 
Warm through the clean sweet rooms on tiptoe going, 
Where many sanctities, dear and delightsome, be, 
They die in Flanders to keep these for me. 

Daisies leaping in foam on the green grasses, 

The dappled sky and the stream that sings as it passes; 

These are bought with a price, a bitter fee, 

They die in Flanders to keep these for me. 

Katharine Tynan 



POETS MILITANT 

(The authors of the poems included in 
this section are or were on active service.) 



SAFETY 

Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest 

He who has found our hid security, 
Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest, 

And heard our word, 'Who is so safe as we?' 
We have found safety with all things undying, 

The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth, 
The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying, 

And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth. 
We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing. 

We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever. 
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going, 

Secretly armed against all death's endeavour; 
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall; 
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all. 

Rupert Brooke 

(From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by the 
John Lane Company. By permission also of Sidgwick & Jackson, London, 
and McClelland & Stewart, Toronto.] 

PEACE 

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His 
hour, 

And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping, 
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power, 

To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, 
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary, 

Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move, 
And half -men, and their dirty songs and dreary, 

And all the little emptiness of love! 



170 POETS MILITANT 

Oh ! we, who have known shame, we have found release 
there, 
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending, 
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath; 
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there 
But only agony, and that has ending; 

And the worst friend and enemy is but Death. 

Rupert Brooke 

[From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by the 
John Lane Company. By permission also of Sidgwick & Jackson, London, 
and McClelland & Stewart, Toronto.] 



THE PLACE 

Blossoms as old as May I scatter here, 
And a blue wave I lifted from the stream. 
It shall not know when winter days are drear 
Or March is hoarse with blowing. But a-dream 
The laurel boughs shall hold a canopy 
Peacefully over it the winter long, 
Till all the birds are back from oversea, 
And April rainbows win a blackbird's song. 

And when the war is over I shall take 

My lute a-down to it and sing again 

Songs of the whispering things amongst the brake, 

And those I love shall know them by their strain. 

Their airs shall be the blackbird's twilight song, 

Their words shall be all flowers with fresh dews hoar.- 

But it is lonely now in winter long, 

And, God! to hear the blackbird sing once more. 

Francis Ledwidge 



SONGS FROM AN EVIL WOOD 171 

EVENING CLOUDS 

A little flock of clouds go down to rest 
In some blue corner off the moon's highway, 
With shepherd winds that shook them in the West 
To borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array, 
Perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoons 
Around the lonesome isle which Brooke has made 
A little England full of lovely noons, 
Or dot it with his country's mountain shade. 

Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle 
Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed, 
What he loved most; for late I roamed awhile 
Thro' English fields and down her rivers sailed; 
And they remember him with beauty caught 
From old desires of Oriental Spring 
Heard in his heart with singing overwrought; 
And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing. 

Francis Ledwidge 

+ — 

SONGS FROM AN EVIL WOOD 

I 

There is no wrath in the stars, 

They do not rage in the sky; 
I look from the evil wood 

And find myself wondering why. 

Why do they not scream out 
And grapple star against star, 

Seeking for blood in the wood 
As all things round me are? 



172 POETS MILITANT 

They do not glare like the sky 

Or flash like the deeps of the wood; 

But they shine softly on 
In their sacred solitude. 

To their high, happy haunts 
Silence from us has flown, 

She whom we loved of old 
And know it now she is gone. 

When will she come again, 
Though for one second only? 

She whom we loved is gone 
And the whole world is lonely. 

II 

Somewhere lost in the haze 
The sun goes down in the cold, 

And birds in this evil wood 
Chirrup home as of old; 

Chirrup, stir and are still 

On the high twigs frozen and thin. 

There is no more noise of them now, 
And the long night sets in. 

Of all the wonderful things 
That I have seen in the wood 

I marvel most at the birds 
And their wonderful quietude. 

For a giant smites with his club 
All day the tops of the hill, 



SONGS FROM AN EVIL WOOD 173 

Sometimes he rests at night, 
Oftener he beats them still. 

And a dwarf with a grim black mane 

Raps with repeated rage 
All night in the valley below 

On the wooden walls of his cage. 

And the elder giants come 

Sometimes, tramping from far 
Through the weird and flickering light 

Made by an earthly star. 

And the giant with his club, 

And the dwarf with rage in his breath, 

And the elder giants from far, 

They are all the children of Death. 

They are all abroad to-night 

And are breaking the hills with their brood, 
And the birds are all asleep 

Even in Plug Street Wood! 

HI 

The great guns of England, they listen mile on mile 
To the boasts of a broken War-Lord; they lift their 
throats and smile; 
But the old woods are fallen 
For a while. 

The old woods are fallen; yet will they come again, 
They will come back some springtime with the warm 
winds and the rain, 



174 POETS MILITANT 

For Nature guardeth her children 
Never in vain. 

They will come back some season; it may be a hundred 

years; 
It is all one to Nature with the centuries that are hers; 
She shall bring back her children 
And dry all their tears. 

But the tears of a would-be War-Lord shall never cease 

to flow, 
He shall weep for the poisoned armies whenever the 
gas-winds blow, 
He shall always weep for his widows, 
And all Hell shall know. 

The tears of a pitiless Kaiser shallow they'll flow and 

wide, 
Wide as the desolation made by his silly pride 
When he slaughtered a little people 
To stab France in her side. 

Over the ragged cinders they shall flow on and on 
With the listless falling of streams that find not 
Oblivion, 
For ages and ages of years 
Till the last star is gone. 

IV 

I met with Death in his country, 
With his scythe and his hollow eye, 

Walking the roads of Belgium. 
I looked and he passed me by. 



A LETTER FROM THE TRENCHES 175 

Since he passed me by in Plug Street, 
In the wood of the evil name, 

I shall not now lie with the heroes, 
I shall not share their fame, 

I shall never be as they are, 

A name in the lands of the Free, 

Since I looked on Death in Flanders 
And he did not look at me. 

Dunsany 

A LETTER FROM THE TRENCHES 

I have not brought my Odyssey 
With me here across the sea; 
But you '11 remember, when I say 
How, when they went down Sparta way, 
To sandy Sparta, long ere dawn 
Horses were harnessed, rations drawn, 
Equipment polished sparkling bright, 
And breakfasts swallowed (as the white 
Of Eastern heavens turned to gold) — 
The dogs barked, swift farewells were told. 
The sun springs up, the horses neigh, 
Crackles the whip thrice — then away ! 
From sun-go-up to sun-go-down 
All day across the sandy down 
The gallant horses galloped, till 
The wind across the downs more chill 
Blew, the sun sank and all the road 
Was darkened, that it only showed 
Right at the end the town's red light 
And twilight glimmering into night. 



176 POETS MILITANT 

The horses never slackened till 

They reached the doorway and stood still. 

Then came the knock, the unlading; then 

The honey-sweet converse of men, 

The splendid bath, the change of dress, 

Then — the grandeur of their Mess, 

The henchmen, the prim stewardess! 

And the breaking of old ground, 

The tales, after the port went round! 

(The wondrous wiles of old Odysseus, 

Old Agamemnon and his misuse 

Of his command, and that young chit 

Paris — who did n't care a bit 

For Helen — only to annoy her 

He did it really, *. r. a.) 

But soon they led amidst the din 

The honey-sweet aoidbs in, 

Whose eyes were blind, whose soul had sight, 

Who knew the fame of men in fight — 

Bard of white hair and trembling foot, 

Who sang whatever God might put 

Into his heart. 

And there he sung, 
Those war-worn veterans among, 
Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung, 
Of clash of arms, of council's brawl, 
Of beauty that must early fall, 
Of battle hate and battle joy 
By the old windy walls of Troy. 
They felt that they were unreal then, 
Visions and shadow-forms, not men. 
But those the Bard did sing and say 
(Some were their comrades, some were they) 



A LETTER FROM THE TRENCHES 177 



Took shape and loomed and strengthened more 
Greatly than they had guessed of yore. 

And now the fight begins again, 
The old war-joy, the old war-pain. 
Sons of one school across the sea 
We have no fear to fight — 



And soon, O soon, I do not doubt it, 
With the body or without it, 
We shall all come tumbling down 
To our old wrinkled red-capped town. 
Perhaps the road up Ilsley way, 
The old ridge-track, will be my way. 
High up among the sheep and sky, 
Look down on Wantage, passing by, 
And see the smoke from Swindon town; 
And then full left at Liddington, 
Where the four winds of heaven meet 
The earth-blest traveller to greet. 
And then my face is toward the south, 
There is a singing on my mouth: 
Away to rightward I descry 
My Barbury ensconced in sky, 
Far underneath the Ogbourne twins, 
And at my feet the thyme and whins, 
The grasses with their little crowns 
Of gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs, 
And that old signpost (well I knew 
That crazy signpost, arms askew, 
Old mother of the four grass ways). 
And then my mouth is dumb with praise, 



178 POETS MILITANT 

For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny, 
A glimpse of Marlborough ipareivfil 
So I descend beneath the rail 
To warmth and welcome and wassail. 



This from the battered trenches — rough. 

Jingling and tedious enough. 

And so I sign myself to you : 

One, who some crooked pathways knew 

Round Bedwyn : who could scarcely leave 

The Downs on a December eve: 

Was at his happiest in shorts, 

And got — not many good reports ! 

Small skill of rhyming in his hand — 

But you'll forgive — you'll understand. 

Charles Hamilton Sorley 
July 12, 1915 

TO MY BROTHER 

This will I do when we have peace again, 
Peace and return, to ease my heart of pain. 
Crouched in the brittle reed-beds, wrapt in grey, 
I'll watch the dawning of the winter's day, 
The peaceful, clinging darkness of the night 
That mingles with mysterious morning light, 
And graceful rushes melting in the haze; 
While all around in winding waterways, 
The wildfowl gabble cheerfully and low, 
Or wheel with pulsing whistle to and fro, 
Filling the silent dawn with joyous song, 
Swelling and dying as they sweep along; 



TO MY BROTHER 179 

Till shadows of vague trees deceive the eyes, 
And stealthily the sun begins to rise, 
Striving to smear with pink the frosted sky, 
And pierce the silver mists' opacity; 
Until the hazy silhouettes grow clear, 
And faintest hints of colouring appear, 
And the slow, throbbing, red, distorted sun 
Reaches the sky, and all the large mists run, 
Leaving the little ones to wreathe and shiver, 
Pathetic, clinging to the friendly river; 
Until the watchful heron, grim and gaunt, 
Shows ghostlike, standing at his chosen haunt, 
And jerkily the moorhens venture out, 
Spreading swift-circled ripples round about, 
And softly to the ear, and leisurely, 
Querulous, comes the plaintive plover's cry; 
And then maybe some whispering near by, 
Some still small sound as of a happy sigh, 
Shall steal upon my senses soft as air, 
And, brother! I shall know that you are there. 

And in the lazy summer nights I'll glide 
Silently down the sleepy river's tide, 
Listening to the music of the stream, 
The plop of ponderously playful bream, 
The water whispering around the boat, 
And from afar the white owl's liquid note, 
Lingering through the stillness soft and slow, 
Watching the little yacht's red, homely glow, 
Her vague reflection, and her clean-cut spars, 
Ink-black against the silverness of the stars, 
Stealthily slipping into nothingness; 
While on the river's moon-splashed surfaces, 



180 POETS MILITANT 

Tall shadows sweep. Then when I go to rest 
It may be that my slumbers will be blessed 
By the faint sound of your untroubled breath, 
Proving your presence near, in spite of death. 

Miles Jeffrey Game Day 

' THE NEW SCHOOL 

The halls that were loud with the merry tread of 
young and careless feet 
Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like 
holiday, 
And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the 
dreaming street 
Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the 
doves away. 

The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the 
tennis-racquet and balls 
Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game 
that is never played, 
And over the study and lecture-room and the river and 
meadow falls 
A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has 
made. 

For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an 
epaulet, 
And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is 
defter with a sword, 
And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the 
trench is red and wet, 
And some will win on the bloody field the accolade 
of the Lord. 



KINGS 181 

They have taken their youth and mirth away from the 
study and playing-ground 
To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky; 
Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons 
and games are found, 
And they who were learning how to live are learning 
how to die. 

And after the golden day has come and the*war is at 
an end, 
A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the 
noble dead. 
And every name on that radiant list will be the name 
of a friend, 
A name that shall through the centuries in grateful 
prayers be said. 

And there will be ghosts in the old school, brave ghosts 
with laughing eyes, 
On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the 
stream with a ghostly rod ; 
They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame 
that sanctifies, 
A flame that they took with strong young hands 
from the altar-fires of God. 

Joyce Kilmer 

[From Main Street and Other Poems. Copyright, 1917, by George H. 
Doran Company.] 

KINGS 

The Kings of the earth are men of might, 
And cities are burned for their delight, 
And the skies rain death in the silent night, 
And the hills belch death all day ! 



182 POETS MILITANT 

But the King of Heaven, Who made them all, 
Is fair and gentle, and very small; 
He lies in the straw, by the oxen's stall — 
Let them think of Him to-day! 

Joyce Kilmer 

[From Main Street and Other Poems. Copyright, 1917, by George H. 
Doran Company.] 



COMRADES: AN EPISODE 

Before, before he was aware 

The " Verey " light had risen ... on the air 

It hung glistering . . . 

And he could not stay his hand 
From moving to the barbed wire's broken strand. 
A rifle cracked. 

He fell. 
Night waned. He was alone. A heavy shell 
Whispered itself passing high, high overhead. 
His wound was wet to his hand : for still it bled 
On to the glimmering ground. 
Then with a slow, vain smile his wound he bound, 
Knowing, of course, he'd not see home again — 
Home whose thought he put away. 

His men 
Whispered: "Where's Mister Gates?" "Out on the 

wire." 
"I'll get him," said one. . . . 

Dawn blinked, and the fire 
Of the Germans heaved up and down the line. 
"Stand to!" 

Too late! "I'll get him." "O the swine! 
When we might get him in yet safe and whole!" 



COMRADES: AN EPISODE 183 

"Corporal did n't see 'un fall out on patrol, 
Or he'd 'a got 'un." "Sssh!" 

"No talking there." 
A whisper: "'A went down at the last flare." 
Meanwhile the Maxims toc-toc-tocked; their swish 
Of bullets told death lurked against the wish. 
No hope for him ! 

His corporal, as one shamed, 
Vainly and helplessly his ill-luck blamed. 



Then Gates slowly saw the morn 
Break in a rosy peace through the lone thorn 
By which he lay, and felt the dawn-wind pass 
Whispering through the pallid, stalky grass 

Of No-Man's Land 

And the tears came 
Scaldingly sweet, more lovely than a flame. 
He closed his eyes : he thought of home 
And grit his teeth. He knew no help could come. 



The silent sun over the earth held sway, 
Occasional rifles cracked and far away 
A heedless speck, a 'plane, slid on alone, 
Like a fly traversing a cliff of stone. 

"I must get back," said Gates aloud, and heaved 

At his body. But it lay bereaved 

Of any power. He could not wait till night . . . 

And he lay still. Blood swam across his sight. 

Then with a groan : 

"No luck ever! Well, I must die alone." 



184 POETS MILITANT 

Occasional rifles cracked. A cloud that shone, 
Gold-rimmed, blackened the sun and then was 

gone. . . . 
The sun still smiled. The grass sang in its play. 
Someone whistled: "Over the hills and far away." 
Gates watched silently the swift, swift sun 
Burning his life before it was begun. . . . 

Suddenly he heard Corporal Timmins' voice: "Now 

then, 
'Urry up with that tea." 

"Hi Ginger!" "Bill!" His men! 
Timmins and Jones and Wilkinson (the 'bard'), 
And Hughes and Simpson. It was hard 
Not to see them : Wilkinson, stubby, grim, 
With his "No, sir," "Yes, sir," and the slim 
Simpson: "Indeed, sir?" (while it seemed he winked 
Because his smiling left eye always blinked), 
And Corporal Timmins, straight and blonde and wise, 
With his quiet-scanning, level, hazel eyes; 
And all the others . . . tunics that did n't fit . . . 
A dozen different sorts of eyes. O it 
Was hard to lie there! Yet he must. But no: 
"I've got to die. I'll get to them. I'll go." 

Inch by inch he fought, breathless and mute, 
Dragging his carcase like a famished brute. . . . 
His head was hammering, and his eyes were dim; 
A bloody sweat seemed to ooze out of him 
And freeze along his spine. . . . Then he 'd lie still 
Before another effort of his will 
Took him one nearer yard. 



NEARER 185 



The parapet was reached. 
He could not rise to it. A lookout screeched : 
"Mr. Gates!" 

Three figures in one breath 
Leaped up. Two figures fell in toppling death; 
And Gates was lifted in. "Who's hit?" said he. 
"Timmins and Jones." "Why did they that for me? — 
I'm gone already!" Gently they laid him prone 
And silently watched. 

He twitched. They heard him moan 
"Why for me?" His eyes roamed round, and none 

replied. 
"I see it was alone I should have died." 
They shook their heads. Then, "Is the doctor here?" 
"He's coming, sir; he's hurryin', no fear." 
"No good . . . 

Lift me." They lifted him. 
He smiled and held his arms out to the dim, 
And in a moment passed beyond their ken, 
Hearing him whisper, "O my men, my men!" 

Robert Nichols 

In Hospital, London, 

Autumn, 1915 



NEARER * 



Nearer and ever nearer . . . . 
My body, tired but tense, v 
Hovers 'twixt vague pleasure 
And tremulous confidence. 

Arms to have and to use them 
And a soul to be made 



186 POETS MILITANT 

Worthy if not worthy; 
If afraid, unafraid. 

To endure for a little, 
To endure and have done: 
Men I love about me, 
Over me the sun ! 

And should at last suddenly 
Fly the speeding death, 
The four great quarters of heaven 
Receive this little breath. 

Robert Nichols 

*"the troops 

Dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom 
Shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals 
Disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots 
And turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky 
Haggard and hopeless. They, who have beaten down 
The stale despair of night, must now renew 
Their desolation in the truce of dawn, 
Murdering the livid hours that grope for peace. 

Yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, 

Can grin through storms of death and find a gap 

In the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence. 

They march from safety, and the bird-sung joy 

Of grass-green thickets, to the land where all 

Is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky 

That hastens over them where they endure 

Sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods, 

And foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom. 



TRENCH DUTY 187 

O my brave brown companions, when your" souls 
Flock silently away, and the eyeless dead 
Shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge, 
Death will stand grieving in that field of war 
Since your unvanquished hardihood is spent. 
And through some mooned Valhalla there will pass 
Battalions and battalions, scarred from hell; 
The unreturning army that was youth; 
The legions who have suffered and are dust. 

Siegfried Sassoon 

[Reprinted by permission from Counter-Attack. Copyright, 1918, byE. 
P. Dutton & Company. Published also by William Heinemann, London.) 



TRENCH DUTY 

Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake, 
Out in the trench with three hours' watch to take, 
I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then 
Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men 
Crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light. 
Hark! There's the big bombardment on our right 
Rumbling and bumping; and the dark's a glare 
Of flickering horror in the sectors where 
We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled, 
Or crawling on their bellies through the wire. 
"What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?" 
Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire: 
Why did he do it? . . . Starlight overhead — 
Blank stars. I'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead. 

Siegfried Sassoon 

(Reprinted by permission from Counter-Attack. Copyright, 1918, by E. 
P. Dutton & Company. Published also by William Heinemann, London.] 



188 POETS MILITANT 

MAGPIES IN PICARDY 

The magpies in Picardy 

Are more than I can tell. 

They flicker down the dusty roads 

And cast a magic spell 

On the men who march through Picardy, 

Through Picardy to hell. 

(The blackbird flies with panic, 
The swallow goes like light, 
The finches move like ladies, 
The owl floats by at night; 
But the great and flashing magpie 
He flies as artists might.) 

A magpie in Picardy 

Told me secret things — 

Of the music in white feathers, 

And the sunlight that sings 

And dances in deep shadows — 

He told me with his wings. 

(The hawk is cruel and rigid, 
He watches from a height; 
The rook is slow and sombre, 
The robin loves to fight; 
But the great and flashing magpie 
He flies as lovers might.) 

He told me that in Picardy, 

An age ago or more, 

While all his fathers still were eggs, 



THE FACE 189 



These dusty highways bore 

Brown, singing soldiers marching out 

Through Picardy to war. 

He said that still through chaos 
Works on the ancient plan, 
And two things have altered not 
Since first the world began — 
The beauty of the wild green earth 
And the bravery of man. 

(For the sparrow flies unthinking 

And quarrels in his flight. 

The heron trails his legs behind, 

The lark goes out of sight; 

But the great and flashing magpie 

He flies as poets might.) 

T. P. Cameron Wilson 

THE FACE 

(Guillemont) 

Out of the smoke of men's wrath, 

The red mist of anger, 

Suddenly, 

As a wraith of sleep, 

A boy's face, white and tense, 

Convulsed with terror and hate, 

The lips trembling. . . . 

Then a red smear, falling. . . . 

I thrust aside the cloud, as it were tangible, 

Blinded with a mist of blood. 



190 POETS MILITANT 

The face cometh again 

As a wraith of sleep : 

A boy's face, delicate and blonde, 

The very mask of God, 

Broken. 

Frederic Manning 

* RELIEVED 

(Guillemont) 

We are weary and silent; 
There is only the rhythm of marching feet; 
Though we move tranced we keep it, 
As clockwork toys. 

But each man is alone in this multitude; 
We know not the world in which we move, 
Seeing not the dawn, earth pale and shadowy, 
Level lands of tenuous grays and greens, 
For our eyeballs have been seared with fire. 

Only we have our secret thoughts, 

Our sense floats out from us delicately apprehensive 

To the very fringes of our being, 

Where light drowns. 

Frederic Manning 

•^TRANSPORT 

(COTJRCELLES) 

The moon swims in milkiness, 
The road glimmers curving down into the wooded 
valley, 



DEAD MAN'S COTTAGE 191 

And with a clashing and creaking of tackle and 

axles 
The train of limbers passes me, and the mules 
Splash me with mud, thrusting me from the road into 

puddles, 
Straining at the tackle with a bitter patience, 
Passing me. . . . 
And into a patch of moonlight, 
With beautiful curved necks and manes, 
Heads reined back, and nostrils dilated, 
Impatient of restraint, 
Pass two gray stallions, 
Such as Oenetia bred; 
Beautiful as the horses of Hippolytus 
Carven on some antique frieze. 
And my heart rejoices seeing their strength in play, 
The mere animal life of them, 
Lusting, 
As a thing passionate and proud. 

Then again the limbers and grotesque mules. 

Frederic Manning 

DEAD MAN'S COTTAGE 

A loft with a ruckle of twisted rafters where the blue 

sky shows through the splintered tiles, 
A shattered floor and a mouldy blanket and little brass 

cases heaped in piles — 
Aloof from the toil and the stench of the trenches, 

marooned in an island of No Man's Land, 
Whipped into waves by the whirl of the shell-fire and 

foaming with poppies on every hand : 



192 POETS MILITANT 

Here is my post now from dawn till darkness, watching 
alone where my comrades died 

With a hermit's meal of meat and of water and Death 
for companion hard by my side. 

Death that I send, and death that seeks me, which is 
my foe and which is my friend? 

Here in the peace of Dead Man's Cottage the differ- 
ence seems little enough in the end. 

Hark ! Here it comes with a scream and a shrieking — 

like ghostly scissors that rend the sky, 
Launched ten miles back on a telephone's whisper to 

seek after those who are next to die. 
Foiled ! Fallen short ! but the earth is shaken with a 

belch of yellow, a burst of flame, 
And the bones of the half-buried dead are riven and 

tossed abroad in a ghastly game. 
Crack ! There 's my answer — behind that traverse a 

glimpse of a grey cap barely seen, 
An arm upflung, as the bullet reached him, in a clutch 

at the sandbag's faithless screen. 
He is one who was, and I to-morrow may leave the 

world that I love and know; 
When Death the Adventurer calls me to follow, shall 

I be glad or sorry to go? 

He $s sfc # sjs 

(A whirr and a buzzing, muffled, metallic — and slid- 
ing afar down the vault of the sky 

A plane in a cluster of thistle-head Archies, like the 
gaunt grey ghost of a dragonfly) 

Good Hunting, Brother! The barely breathed whisper 
just stirs the motes in the sunlight beam, 



ON A TROOPSHIP, 1915 193 

And the ghosts of the dead in Dead Man's Cottage 

reply like the half-heard voice of a dream. 
Good Hunting ! WE followed the trail before you, WE 

hilled once or twice ere we missed our spring, 
We who have laid by our arms salute you who still press 

trigger to serve the King. 
Life is the best, for living is serving — be not too eager to 

hurry away; 
Death is not hard, for the dead remember — be not too 

troubled or eager to stay. 

J. H. Knight-Adkin 

THE LAST POST 

(June, 1916) 

The bugler sent a call of high romance — 

Lights out! Lights out! — to the deserted square: 

On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer. 

God, if it's this for me next time in France 

Spare me the phantom bugle as I lie 

Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, 

Dead in a row with the other shattered ones, 

Lying so stiff and still under the sky — 

Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die. 

The music ceased, and the red sunset flare 

Was blood about his head as he stood there. 

Robert Graves 

ON A TROOPSHIP, 1915 

Farewell! the village leaning to the hill, 
And all the cawing rooks that homeward fly; 
The bees; the drowsy anthem of the mill; 
And winding pollards, where the plover cry. 



194 POETS MILITANT 

We watch the breakers crashing on the bow 

And those far flashes in the Eastern haze; 

The fields and friends, that were, are fainter now 

Than whispering of ancient water-ways. 

Now England stirs, as stirs a dreamer wound 

In immemorial slumber: lids apart, 

Soon will she rouse her giant limbs attuned 

To that old music hidden at her heart. 

Farewell ! the little men ! Their menial cries 

Are distant as the sparrows' chatterings; 

She rises in her circuit of the skies, 

An eagle with the dawn upon her wings. 

We come to harbour in the breath of wars; 

Welcome again the land of our farewells! 

In this strange ruin open to the stars 

We find the haven, where her spirit dwells: 

Where the near guns boom ; and the stricken towns 

are rolled 
Skyward athunder with their trail of gold. 

Herbert Asquith 

"^BEFORE THE CHARGE 

(Loos, 1915) 

The night is still and the air is keen, 
Tense with menace the time crawls by, 
In front is the town and its homes are seen, 
Blurred in outline against the sky. 

The dead leaves float in the sighing air, 
The darkness moves like a curtain drawn, 
A veil which the morning sun will tear 
From the face of death. We charge at dawn. 

Patrick ' MacGill 



IN THE MORNING 195 



IN THE MORNING 

(Loos, 1915) 

The firefly haunts were lighted yet, 

As we scaled the top of the parapet; 

But the East grew pale to another fire, 

As our bayonets gleamed by the foeman's wire; 

And the sky was tinged with gold and gray, 

And under our feet the dead men lay, 

Stiff by the loopholed barricade; 

Food of the bomb and the hand-grenade; 

Still in the slushy pool and mud — 

Ah! the path we came was a path of blood, 

When we went to Loos in the morning. 

A little gray church at the foot of a hill, 
With powdered glass on the window-sill. 
The shell-scarred stone and the broken tile, 
Littered the chancel, nave and aisle — 
Broken the altar and smashed the pyx, 
And the rubble covered the crucifix; 
This we saw when the charge was done, 
And the gas-clouds paled in the rising sun, 
As we entered Loos in the morning. 

■ 

The dead men lay on the shell-scarred plain, 
Where Death and the Autumn held their reign - 
Like banded ghosts in the heavens gray 
The smoke of the powder paled away; 
Where riven and rent the spinney trees 
Shivered and shook in the sullen breeze, 



196 POETS MILITANT 

And there, where the trench through^the grave- 
yard wound, 
The dead men's bones stuck over the ground 
By the road to Loos in the morning. 

The turret towers that stood in the air, 

Sheltered a foeman sniper there — 

They found, who fell in the sniper's aim, 

A field of death on the field of fame; 

And stiff in khaki the boys were laid 

To the sniper's toll at the barricade, 

But the quick went clattering through the town, 

Shot at the sniper and brought him down, 

As we entered Loos in the morning. 

The dead men lay on the cellar stair, 
Toll of the bomb that found them there, 
In the street men fell as a bullock drops, 
Sniped from the fringe of Hulluch copse. 
And the choking fumes of the deadly shell 
Curtained the place where our comrades fell, — 
This we saw when the charge was done, 
And the East blushed red to the rising sun 
In the town of Loos in the morning. 

Patrick MacGill 

REINCARNATION 

I too remember distant golden days 
When even my soul was young; I see the sand 
Whirl in a blinding pillar towards the band 
Of orange sky-line 'neath a turquoise blaze — 



LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS 197 

(Some burnt-out sky spread o'er a glistening land) 
— And slim brown jargoning men in blue and gold, 
I know it all so well, I understand 
The ecstacy of worship ages-old. 

Hear the first truth : The great far-seeing soul 

Is ever in the humblest husk; I see 
How each succeeding section takes its toll 

In fading cycles of old memory. 
And each new life the next life shall control 
Until perfection reach Eternity. 

E. Wyndham Tennant 
Ramparts, Ypres, July, 1916 



LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS 

Once more the Night like some great dark drop-scene 

Eclipsing horrors for a brief entr'acte 

Descends, lead-weighty. Now the space between, 

Fringed with the eager eyes of men, is racked 

By spark-tailed lights, curvetting far and high 

Swift smoke-flecked coursers, raking the black sky. 

And as each sinks in ashes grey, one more 
Rises to fall, and so through all the hours 
They strive like petty empires by the score, 
Each confident of its success and powers, 
And hovering at its zenith each will show 
Pale rigid faces, lying dead, below. 

There shall they lie, tainting the innocent air, 
Until the Dawn, deep veiled in mournful grey, 



198 POETS MILITANT 

Sadly and quietly shall lay them bare, 
The broken heralds of a doleful day. 

E. Wyndham Tennant 
Hulluch Road, October, 1915 

TO A SKYLARK BEHIND OUR TRENCHES 

Thou little voice! Thou happy sprite, 

How didst thou gain the air and light — 

That sing'st so merrily? 

How could such little wings 

Give thee thy freedom from these dense 

And fetid tombs — these burrows whence 

We peer like frightened things? 

In the free sky 

Thou sail'st while here we crawl and creep 

And fight and sleep 

And die. 

How canst thou sing while Nature lies 
Bleeding and torn beneath thine eyes, 
And the foul breath 
Of rank decay hangs like a shroud 
Over the fields the shell hath ploughed? 
How canst thou sing, so gay and glad, 
Whilst all the heavens are filled with death 
And all the world is mad? 

Yet sing! For at thy song 

The tall trees stand up straight and strong 

And stretch their twisted arms. 

And smoke ascends from pleasant farms 

And the shy flowers their odours give. 



BEFORE GINCHY 199 

Once more the riven pastures smile, 
And for a while 
We live. 

Edward de Stein 
France, May, 1916 

* BEFORE GINCHY 
September, 1916 

Yon poisonous clod, 
(Look ! I could touch it with my stick !) that lies 
In the next ulcer of this shell-pock'd land 
To that which holds me now; 
Yon carrion, with its devil-swarm of flies 

That scorn the protest of the limp, cold hand, 
Seeming half-rais'd to shield the matted brow; 
Those festering rags whose colour mocks the sod; 
And, ye gods, those eyes! 
Those staring, staring eyes! 

How can I gaze unmov'd on sights like these? 
What hideous enervation bids me sit 
Here in the shelter of this neighbour pit, 
Untroubled, unperturbed, at mine ease, 
And idly, coldly scan 
This fearsome relic of what once was man? 

Alas! what icy spell hath set 

The seal upon warm pity? Whence 
This freezing up of every sense? 
I think not I lack pitifulness; — I know 
That my affections were not ever so; 
My heart is not of stone ! — And yet 



200 POETS MILITANT 

There's something in the feeling of this place, 

There's something in the breathing of this air, 
Which lets me gaze upon that awful face 

Quite passionless; which lets me meet that stare 
Most quietly. — Nay, I could touch that hair, 
And sicken not to feel it coil and cling 

About my fingers. Did occasion press, 
Lo ! I could spurn it with my foot — that thing 
Which lies so nigh! — 
Spurn it light-heartedly and pass it by. 
So cold, so hard, so seeming pitiless 
Ami! 
And yet not I alone; — they know full well, 
These others, that strange blunting of the 

heart : 
They know the workings of that devil's-art, 
Which drains a man's soul dry, 
And kills out sensibility! 

They know it too, and they can tell 
That this distemper strange and fell, 
This hideous blotting of the sense, 
Creeps on one like a pestilence ! 
It is some deadly Power of ill 
Which overbears all human will ! 
Some awful influence of the sky, 
Some dreadful power of the place, 

Wherein we live and breathe and move, 
Which withers up the roots of Love 
And dries the very springs of Grace. 
It is the place ! — For, lo, we are in hell. 
That is the reason why! 



BEFORE GINCHY 201 

And tilings that curse and writhe, and things that 
die, 
And fearful, festering things that rot, 
— They have their place here. They are not 
Like unfamiliar portents hurl'd 
From out some monstrous, alien world. 
This is their place, their native atmosphere, 
Their home; — they are in keeping here! 

And, being in hell, 
All we, who breathe this tense, fierce air, 
— On us, too, lies the spell. 
Something of that soul-deadening blight we share; 
That even the eye is, in a sense, made one 

With what it looks upon; 
That even the brain, in some strange fashion 
wrought, 

Twists its familiar thought 
To forms and shapes uncouth; 
And even the heart — the heart that once did feel 
The surge of tears and pity's warm appeal — 

Doth quite forget her ancient ruth, 
Can look on piteous sights unmov'd, 
As though, forsooth, poor fool! she had never lov'd. 



They say we change, we men that come out here. 
But do they know how great that change? 
And do they know how darkly strange 
Are those deep tidal waves that roll 
Within the currents of the soul, 
Down in the very founts of life, 
Out here? 



POETS MILITANT 



How can they know it ? — Mother, sister, wife, 
Friends, comrades, whoso else is dear, 
How can they know? — Yet haply, half in fear, 
Seeing a long-time absent face once more, 
Something they note which was not there before, 
— Perchance, a certain habit of the eye, 
Perchance, an alter'd accent in the speech — 
Showing he is not what he was of yore. 

Such little, curious signs they note. Yet each 
Doth in its little, nameless way 
Some portion of the truth betray. 
Such tokens do not lie! 

The change is there; the change is true! 
And so, what wonder, if the outward view 
Do to the eye of Love unroll 
Some hint of a transformed soul? 

— Some hint; for even Love dare peep 
No further in that troubled deep; 
And things there be too stern and dark 
To live in any outward mark; 

The things that they alone can tell, 
Like Dante, who have walk'd in hell. 

E. Armine Wodehouse 



* NEXT MORNING 



To-day the sun shines bright, 
The skies are fair; 
There is a delicate freshness in the air, 

Which, like a nimble sprite, 
Plays lightly on my cheek and lifts my hair. 



NEXT MORNING 203 

And, as I look about me — lo ! 
I see a world I do not know! 
As though some soft celestial beam, 
Some clean and wholesome grace 
Had purged half the foulness of the place 
To a strange beauty. — Was it then a dream, 
That ghostly march, but yesternight, 
Beneath the moon's uncertain light, 
When, chill at heart, we pick'd our way 
Thro' dreadful silent things, that lay 
About our path on either hand ? 
Was it a dream? Is this the self-same land, 

The land we pass'd thro' then? 
How strange it seems! — Yet 't is the same! 
I see from here the path by which we came. 

The tumbled soil, the shatter'd trees are there! 
And there, in desolation sleeping, 
Almost too pitiful for weeping, 
The little village — once the home of men ! 

Aye! the whole scene is there! 
As desperate in its abandonment, 
As melancholy-wild and savage-bare 
As then. — But, somehow, in this warm, bright 
air 
It all seems different! 
The same — and yet I know it not! 

II 

Thus much I see. — But there's a spot 

That 's hidden from mine eyes ! 
Behind the ruin'd church it lies, 
Where gaping vaults, beneath the nave. 



204 POETS MILITANT 

Have made a dreadful kind of cave; 
And there, before the cavern's mouth, 
A dark and stagnant pool is spread 

So silent and so still ! 
I saw it last i' th' pale moonlight; 
And I could think that shapes uncouth 
Crept from that cave at dead of night 
With ghoulish stealth, to feast their fill 
Upon the pale and huddled dead ! 

Yet now, 
Haply, beneath this warm sunlight, 
Even that fearsome pool is bright, 

Under the cavern's brow! 
So outward fair, that none might guess 
The secret of its hideousness, 
Nor know what nameless things are done 
There, with the setting of the sun! 

E. Armine Wodehouse 

A FINGER AND A HUGE, THICK THUMB 

(A Ballad of the Trenches) 

It was nearly twelve o'clock by the sergeant's watch; 

The moon was three hours high. 
The long grass growing on the parapet 

Rustled as the wind went by. 
Hoar-frost glistened on the bayonets 

Of the rifles in the rifle-rack. 
Suddenly I heard a faint, weird call 

And an answering call come back. 

We were standing in the corner by the Maxim gun, 
In the shadow, and the sergeant said, 



A FINGER AND A THUMB 205 

As he gripped my arm: "Did you hear it?" 

I could only nod my head. 
Looking down the length of the moonlit trench, 

I saw the sleeping men 
Huddled on the floor; but no one stirred. 

Silently we listened again. 

A second time it came, still dim and strange, 

A far "Halloo-o-o! Halloo-o-o!" 
I would n't have believed such a ghostly cry 

Could sound so clearly, too. 
The sentries standing to the right and left 

Neither spoke nor stirred. 
They stood like stone. Can it be, I thought, 

That nobody else has heard? 

Then closer at hand, "Halloo-o-o! Halloo-o-o!" 

Again the answering call. 
"Quick!" said the sergeant as he pulled me down 

In the shadow, close to the wall. 
I dropped in a heap and none too soon; 

For scarcely a rifle-length away, 
A man stood silent on the parados; 

His face was a ghastly gray. 

He carried a queer, old muzzle-loading gun; 

The bayonet was dim with rust. 
His top-boots were muddy, and his red uniform 

Covered with blood and dust. 
He waited for a moment, then waved his hand, 

And they came in twos and threes: 
Englishmen, Dutchmen, French cuirassiers, 

Highlanders with great bare knees; 



206 POETS MILITANT 

Pikemen, archers with huge crossbows, 

Lancers and grenadiers; 
Men in rusty armor, with battle-dented shields, 

With axes and swords and spears. 
Great blond giants with long, flowing hair 

And limbs of enormous girth; 
Yellow men with bludgeons, black men with knives, 

From the wild, waste lands of the earth. 

The one with the queer, old muzzle-loading gun 

Jumped down with a light, quick leap. 
He was head and shoulders higher than the parapet. 

Though the trench was six feet deep. 
The sentries stood like men in a dream, 

With their faces to the German line. 
He felt of their arms, their bodies, and their legs, 

But they made no sound or sign. 

He beckoned to the others, and three jumped in. 

I was shaking like a man with a chill; 
But I could n't help smiling when the sergeant said 

Through his chattering teeth: "K-k-k-keep s-s-s- 
still!" 
A hairy-armed giant, with rings in his ears, 

Stood looking down the dugout stair, 
Hands on his knees. Slowly he turned, 

And saw us lying there! 

With a huge forefinger and a huge, thick thumb 

He felt us over, limb by limb. 
The two of us together would not have made 

One man the size of him. 



A FINGER AND A THUMB 207 

I could see his scorn, and my face burned hot, 
Though my body was cold and numb, 

When he spanned my chest so disdainfully 
With only a finger and a thumb. 

Suddenly the chatter of the sergeant's teeth 

Stopped. He was angry, too; 
And he whispered: "Are you game? Get the 
Maxim gun!" 

I hugged him. "It will scare them blue." 
Slowly, very slowly, we rose to our feet; 

I was conscious of my knocking knees. 
The murmur of their voices was an eery sound 

Like wind in wintry trees. 

I saw them staring from the tail of my eye 

As the tripod legs we set. 
We lifted the gun and clamped it on, 

With the muzzle at the parapet. 
Nervously I pushed in the tag of the belt; 

The sergeant loaded and laid 
Quietly, deftly; the click of the lock 

Was the only sound he made. 

"Ready!" he nodded. I turned my head 

And nearly collapsed with fright. 
Four of them were standing at my shoulder, 

The others to the left and right. 
Then, "Fire!" I shouted, and the gun leaped up 

With a roar and a spurt of flame. 
The sergeant gripped the handles while the belt 
ran through, 

Never stopping to correct his aim. 



208 POETS MILITANT 

Fearfully I turned, then jumped to my feet, 

Forgetting all about the feed. 
They were running like the wind up a long, steep hill, 

With the thumb-and-finger man in the lead ! 
And high above the rattle and roar of the gun 

I heard a despairing yell, 
As Englishmen, Dutchmen, pikemen, bowmen, 

Vanished in the night, pell-mell. 

The men who were sleeping in the moonlit trench 

Sat up and rubbed their eyes; 
And one of them muttered in a drowsy voice: 

"Wot to blazes is the row, you guys?" 
The sergeant said: "That'll do! That'll do!" 

But he whispered to me: "Keep mum!" 
They would n't have believed that the row was all 
about 

A finger and a huge, thick thumb. 

James Norman Hall 

GOD'S HILLS 

In our hill-country of the North, 

The rainy skies are soft and gray, 
And rank on rank the clouds go forth, 

And rain in orderly array 
Treads the mysterious flanks of hills 

That stood before our race began, 
And still shall stand when Sorrow spills 

Her last tear on the dust of man. 

There shall the mists in beauty break 
And clinging tendrils finely drawn, 



GOD'S HILLS 209 

A rose and silver glory make 

About the silent feet of dawn; 
Till Gable clears his iron sides 

And Bowfell's wrinkled front appears, 
And Scawfell's clustered might derides 

The menace of the marching years. 

The tall men of that noble land 

Who share such high companionship, 
Are scorners of the feeble hand, 

Contemners of the faltering lip. 
When all the ancient truths depart, 

In every strait that men confess, 
Stands in the stubborn Cumbrian heart 

The spirit of that steadfastness. 

In quiet valleys of the hills 

The humble gray stone crosses lie, 
And all day long the curlew shrills 

And all day long the wind goes by. 
But on some stifling alien plain 

The flesh of Cumbrian men is thrust 
In shallow pits, and cries in vain 

To mingle with its kindred dust. 

Yet those make death a little thing 

Who know the settled works of God, 
Winds that heard Latin watchwords ring 

From ramparts where the Roman trod. 
Stars that beheld the last King's crown 

Flash in the steel-gray mountain tarn, 
And ghylls that cut the live rock down 

Before Kings ruled in Ispahan. 



210 POETS MILITANT 

And when the sun at even dips 

And Sabbath bells are sad and sweet, 
When some wan Cumbrian mother's lips 

Pray for the son they shall not greet, 
As falls that sudden dew of grace 

Which makes for her the riddle plain, 
The South wind blows to our own place, 

And we shall see the hills again. 

William Noel Hodgson 
{"Edward Melbourne") 

Ammunition column 

I am only a cog in a giant machine, a link of an endless 

chain : — 
And the rounds are drawn, and the rounds are fired, and 

the empties return again; 
Railroad, lorry, and limber; battery, column, and park; 
To the shelf where the set fuse waits the breech, from the 

quay where the shells embark. 
We have watered and fed, and eaten our beef; the long 

dull day drags by, 
As I sit here watching our "Archibalds" strafing an 

empty sky; 
Puff and flash on the far-off blue round the speck one 

guesses the plane — 
Smoke and spark of the gun-machine that is fed by the 

endless chain. 

I am only a cog in a giant machine, a little link in the 

chain, 
Waiting a word from the wagon-lines that the guns 

are hungry again : — 



AMMUNITION COLUMN 211 

t 
Column-wagon to battery -wagon, and battery -wagon to 

gun; 
To the loader kneeling 'twixt trail and wheel from the 

shops where the steam-lathes run. 
There 's a lone mule braying against the line where the 

mud cakes fetlock-deep; 
There's a lone soul humming a hint of a song in the 

barn where the drivers sleep; 
And I hear the pash of the orderly's horse as he canters 

him down the lane — 
Another cog in the gun-machine, a link in the selfsame 

chain. 

I am only a cog in a giant machine, but a vital link in 

the chain; 
And the Captain has sent from the wagon-line to fill 

his wagons again ; — 
From wagon-limber to gunpit dump; from loader's fore- 
arm at breech, 
To the working-party that melts away when the shrapnel 

bullets screech. — 
So the restless section pulls out once more in column of 

route from the right 
At the tail of a blood-red afternoon; so the flux of 

another night 
Bears back the wagons we fill at dawn to the sleeping 

column again . . . 
Cog on cog in the gun-machine, link on link in the 

chain! 

Gilbert Frankau 



212 POETS MILITANT 

THE VOICE OF THE GUNS 

We are the guns, and your masters! Saw ye our 

flashes? 
Heard ye the scream of our shells in the night, and 

the shuddering crashes? 
Saw ye our work by the roadside, the shrouded things 

lying, 
Moaning to God that He made them — the maimed 

and the dying? 

Husbands or sons, 
Fathers or lovers, we break them ! We are the guns ! 

We are the guns and ye serve us ! Dare ye grow weary, 

Steadfast at night-time, at noontime; or waking, when 
dawn winds blow dreary 

Over the fields and the flats and the reeds of the barrier- 
water, 

To wait on the hour of our choosing, the minute de- 
cided for slaughter? 

Swift the clock runs; 

Yes, to the ultimate second. Stand to your guns! 

We are the guns and we need you! Here, in the 

timbered 
Pits that are screened by the crest and the copse where 

at dusk ye unlimbered, 
Pits that one found us — and, finding, gave life (did he 

flinch from the giving?); 
Laboured by moonlight when wraith of the dead 

brooded yet o'er the living; 
Ere, with the sun's 
Rising, the sorrowful spirit abandoned its guns. 



THE VOICE OF THE GUNS 213 

Who but the guns shall avenge him? Strip us for 
action ! 

Load us and lay to the centremost hair of the dial- 
sight's refraction! 

Set your quick hands to our levers to compass the sped 
soul's assoiling; 

Brace your taut limbs to the shock when the thrust 
of the barrel recoiling 

Deafens and stuns! 

Vengeance is ours for our servants, trust ye the 
guns! 

Least of our bond-slaves or greatest, grudge ye the 

burden? 
Hard is this service of ours which has only our service 

for guerdon: 
Grow the limbs lax, and unsteady the hands, which 

aforetime we trusted? 
Flawed, the clear crystal of sight; and the clean steel 

of hardihood rusted? 
Dominant ones, 
Are we not tried serfs and proven — true to our guns ? 

Ye are the guns ! Are we worthy ? Shall not these speak 

for us, 
Out of the woods where the tree-trunks are slashed with the 

vain bolts that seek for us, 
Thunder of batteries firing in unison, swish of shell 

flighting, 
Hissing that rushes to silence and breaks to the thud of 

alighting ? 

Death that outruns 
Horseman and foot ? Are we justified ? Answer, guns I 



214 POETS MILITANT 

Yea! by your works are ye justified — toil unrelieved; 
Manifold labours, coordinate each to the sending 

achieved; 
Discipline, not of the feet but the soul, unremitting, 

unfeigned; 
Tortures unholy by flame and by maiming, known, 

faced, and disdained; 

Courage that shuns 
Only foolhardiness; — even by these are ye worthy 

your guns! 

Wherefore — and unto ye only — power hath been 

given; 
Yea! beyond man, over men, over desolate cities and 

riven; 
Yea! beyond space, over earth and the seas and the 

sky's high dominions; 
Yea! beyond time, over Hell and the fiends and the 

Death- Angel's pinions! 
Vigilant ones, 
Loose them, and shatter, and spare not! We are the 



guns! 



Gilbert Frankau 



A KISS 



She kissed me when she said good-bye — 
A child's kiss, neither bold nor shy. 

We had met but a few short summer hours; 
Talked of the sun, the wind, the flowers, 

Sports and people; had rambled through 
A casual catchy song or two, 



A KISS 215 

And walked with arms linked to the car 
By the light of a single misty star. 

(It was war-time, you see, and the streets were 

dark 
Lest the ravishing Hun should find a mark.) 

And so we turned to say good-bye; 

But somehow or other, I don't know why, 

— Perhaps 't was the feel of the khaki coat 
(She'd a brother in Flanders then) that smote 

Her heart to a sudden tenderness 
Which issued in that swift caress — 

Somehow, to her, at any rate 

A mere hand-clasp seemed inadequate; 

And so she lifted her dewy face 
And kissed me — but without a trace 

Of passion, — and we said good-bye . . . 
A child's kiss, . . . neither bold nor shy. 

My friend, I like you — it seemed to say — 
Here's to our meeting again some day! 
Some happier day . . . 
Good-bye. 

Bernard Freeman Trotter 
August, 1916 



216 POETS MILITANT 

" THE POPLARS 

O, a lush green English meadow — it's there that I 

would lie — 
A skylark singing overhead, scarce present to the eye, 
And a row of wind-blown poplars against an English 

sky. 

The elm is aspiration, and death is in the yew, 

And beauty dwells in every tree from Lapland to 

Peru; 
But there's magic in the poplars when the wind goes 

through. 

When the wind goes through the poplars and blows 

them silver white, 
The wonder of the universe is flashed before my sight : 
I see immortal visions : I know a god's delight. 

I catch the secret rhythm that steals along the earth, 
That swells the bud, and splits the burr, and gives the 

oak its girth, 
That mocks the blight and canker with its eternal 

birth. 

It wakes in me the savour of old forgotten things, 
Before "reality" had marred the child's imaginings: 
I can believe in fairies — I see their shimmering wings. 

I see with the clear vision of that untainted prime, 
Before the fool's bells jangled in and Elfland ceased 

to chime, 
That sin and pain and sorrow are *but a pantomime — 



THE CATHEDRAL 217 

A dance of leaves in ether, of leaves threadbare and 

sere, 
From whose decaying husks at last what glory shall 

appear 
When the white winter angel leads in the happier 

year. 

And so I sing the poplars; and when I come to die 
I will not look for jasper walls, but cast about 

my eye 
For a row of wind-blown poplars against an English 
* sky. 

Bernard Freeman Trotter 
Oxford, September, 1916 

^THE CATHEDRAL 

Hope and mirth are gone. Beauty is departed. 
Heaven's hid in smoke, if there's Heaven still. 

Silent the city, friendless, broken-hearted, 
Crying in quiet as a widow will. 

Oh, for the sound here of a good man's laughter, 
Of one blind beggar singing in the street, 

Where there's no sound, excepting a blazing rafter 
Falls, or the patter of a starved dog's feet. 

I have seen Death, and comrades' crumbled faces, 
Yea, I have closed dear eyes with half a smile; 
But horror's in this havoc of old places 

Where driven men once rested from their hurry, 
And girls were happy for a little while, 
Forgiving, praying, singing, feeling sorry. 

William G. Shakespeare 



218 POETS MILITANT 

MEMORIES 

Fab up at Glorian the wind is sighing, 

And, as the light grows less, 
Across the downland sounds the plovers' crying, 

The voice of loneliness. 

Thither, from this sad waste of waters streaming, 

All the unending night, 
My heart returns, to see by Kennet gleaming 

One cottage window-light. 

Yet for your sake it is that I must roam now, 

Dear lands, dear lads I know; 
I love you so, I could not stay at home now, 

Nor pay the debt I owe. 

E. Hilton Young 

LINES WRITTEN IN A FIRE-TRENCH * 

'T is midnight, and above the hollow trench, 
Seen through a gaunt wood's battle-blasted trunks 
And the stark rafters of a shattered grange, 
The quiet sky hangs huge and thick with stars. 
And through the vast gloom, murdering its peace, 
Guns bellow and their shells rush swishing ere 
They burst in death and thunder, or they fling 
Wild jangling spirals round the screaming air. 
Bullets whine by, and Maxims drub like drums, 
And through the heaped confusion of all sounds 
One great gun drives its single vibrant "Broum," 

1 Written in fire-trench above "Glencorse Wood," West- 
hoeck, April 11, 1915. 



BACK TO LONDON 219 

And scarce five score of paces from the wall 
Of piled sandbags and barb-toothed nets of wire, 
(So near and yet what thousand leagues away!) 
The unseen foe both adds and listens to 
The selfsame discord, eyed by the same stars. 
Deep darkness hides the desolated land, 
Save where a sudden flare sails up and bursts 
In whitest glare above the wilderness, 
And for one instant lights with lurid pallor 
The tense, packed faces in the black redoubt. 

W. S. S. Lyon 

BACK TO LONDON: A POEM OF LEAVE 

I have not wept when I have seen 

My stricken comrades die; 
I have not wept when we have made 

The place where they should lie; 
My heart seemed drowned in tears, but still 

No tear came to my eye. 

There is a time to weep, saith One, 

A season to refrain; 
How should it ope, this fount of tears, 

While I sat in the train, 
So that all blurred the landscape moved 

Out with the window-pane? 

But one short day since I had left 

A land upheaved and rent, 
Where Spring brings back no bourgeoning, 

As Nature's force were spent; 



220 POETS MILITANT 

Yet now I travelled in a train 
Thro' the kindly land of Kent ! 

A kindly land, a pleasant land, 

As welcome sight to me 
As after purgatorial pains 

The Plains of Heaven might be, 
When the wondrous Goodness that is God 

Draws a soul from jeopardy. 

A pleasant land, a peaceful land 

Of wooded hill and weald, 
Where kine stand knee-deep in the grass, 

And sheep graze in the field; 
A blessed land, where a wounded heart 

Might readily be healed. 

A wholesome land, where each white road 

Leads to a ruddy hearth; 
Where still is heard the sound of song 

And the kindly note of mirth; 
Where the strong man cheerful wakes to toil 

And the dead sleep sound i' the earth. 

I have not wept when I have seen 

My chosen comrades die; 
I have not wept while we have digged 

The grave where they should lie; 
But now I lay my head in my hand 

Lest my comrades see me cry. 

The little children, two by two, 
Stand on the five-barred gate, 



BACK TO LONDON 221 

And wave their hands to waft us home 

Like passengers of state; 
My heart is very full, so full 

It holds no room for hate. 

The children climb the five-barred gate 

And blow us kisses five, 
The little cripple in his car 

Waves from the carriage drive : 
Blest are the dead, but blest e'en more 

We soldiers still alive ! 

Lo! we draw near to London town, 

The troop-train jolts and drags, 
The friendly poor come forth once more 

To greet us in their rags — 
The very linen on the line 

Flutters and flaunts like flags! 

The girls within the factory grim 

Smile at the broken pane; 
The seamstress in her lonely room 

Sighs o'er her task again; 
The servant shakes her duster forth 

To signal our speeding train; 

The station names go flitting past 

Like old familiar friends ; 
The smoke cloud with the clouds aloft 

In wondrous fashion blends, 
And, lo! we enter London town, 

To where all journeying ends. 



POETS MILITANT 



I have not wept when I have seen 

A hundred comrades die; 
I have not wept when that we shaped 

The house where they must lie — 
But now I hide my head in my hand 

Lest my comrades see me cry. 

These are the scenes, these the dear souls, 

'Mid which our lot was cast, 
To this loved land, if Fate be kind, 

We shall return at last, 
For this our stern steel line we hold — 

Lord, may we hold it fast! 

Joseph Lee 

RED POPPIES IN THE CORN 

I've seen them in the morning light, 

When white mists drifted by: 
I've seen them in the dusk o' night 

Glow 'gainst the starry sky. 
The slender waving blossoms red, 

Mid yellow fields forlorn: 
A glory on the scene they shed, 

Red Poppies in the Corn. 

I've seen them, too, those blossoms red, 

Show 'gainst the Trench lines' screen, 
A crimson stream that waved and spread 

Thro' all the brown and green: 
I've seen them dyed a deeper hue 

Than ever nature gave, 
Shell-torn from slopes on which they grew, 

To cover many a grave. 



HORSE-BATHING PARADE 223 



Bright blossoms fair by nature set 

Along the dusty ways, 
You cheered us, in the battle's fret, 

Thro' long and weary days : 
You gave us hope : if fate be kind, 

We'll see that longed-for morn, 
When home again we march and find 

Red Poppies in the Corn. 

W. Campbell Galbraith 



^HORSE-BATHING PARADE 

A few clouds float across the grand blue sky, 
The glorious sun has mounted zenith-high, 
Mile upon mile of sand, flat, golden, clean, 
And bright, stretch north and south, and fringed 

with green, 
The rough dunes fitly close the landward view. 
All else is sea; somewhere in misty blue 
The distant coast seems melting into air — 
Earth, sky, and ocean, all commingling there — 
And one bold, lonely rock, whose guardian light 
Glistens afar by day, a spire snow white. 
Here, where the ceaseless blue-green rollers dash 
Their symmetry to dazzling foam and flash, 
We ride our horses, silken flanks ashine, 
Spattered and soaked with flying drops of brine, 
The sunny water tosses round their knees, 
Their smooth tails shimmer in the singing breeze. 
White streaks of foam sway round us, to and fro, 
With shadows swaying on the sand below; 
The horses snort and start to see the foam, 



224 POETS MILITANT 

And hear the breaking roar of waves that come, 
Or, pawing, splash the brine, and so we stand, 
And hear the surf rush hissing up the sand. 

W. Kersley Holmes 

AFTER ACTION 

(A Soul Remembers) 

Once, in my moment of earth, 
Before the immortal re-birth, 
I thought of my flesh as a thing 
Like to the house of a king, — 
Beautiful, worthy to stand 
Proud on the heavenly strand. 

I remember it now as a clod 
Prone in the gardens of God, — 
Mean, without honor or beauty, 
Justified but by the duty 
Of spending its pittance of power 
In rearing a heavenly flower. 

Robert Haven Schauffler 



A CONFESSION OF FAITH 

Who would remember me were I to die, 
Remember with a pang and yet no pain; 
Remember as a friend, and feel good-bye 
Said at each memory as it wakes again? 

I would not that a single heart should ache — 
That some dear heart will ache is my one grief. 



HEREAFTER 225 



Friends, if I have them, I would fondly take 
With me that best of gifts, a friend's belief. 

I have believed, and for my faith reaped tares; 
Believed again, and, losing, was content; 
A heart perchance touched blindly, unawares, 
Rewards with friendship faith thus freely spent. 

Bury the body — it has served its ends; 
Mark not the spot, but "On Gallipoli," 
Let it be said, "he died." Oh, Hearts of Friends, 
If I am worth it, keep my memory. 

James Sprent 

HEREAFTER 

It's Autumn-time on Salisbury Plain. 

Let it be Autumn-time again 
When life is cured of this black pain 
And I go home, go home again, 
By Highgate on the Hill. 
For there 's a little wood I know 
Where all the trees of wonder grow, 
And shadows like cool waters flow 
'Twixt ivied banks on beds of moss, — 
Mingle and merge and fade and cross. 
And you may come and you may go 
And never in that holy place 
Look upon a German face. 

The trees have all grown as they will 
In the wood by Highgate on the Hill : 



226 POETS MILITANT 



Great oaks with many a lichen sash 
And elm and birch, and may and ash, 
In twos and threes they stand together 
In all the splendid autumn weather. 
And in between and left and right 
Are laurel bushes green and bright. 
Acorns and chestnuts patter down 
On leaves all gold and red and brown, 
All gold and red and brown and grey 
That dance the afternoon away. 

October's quick and golden rains 
Wander in rivers down the lanes, 
Or make, in hollows, little ponds 
Where pebbles shine like diamonds. 
From breakfast-time till after tea 
In ev'ry branch of ev'ry tree 
The starlings, like a lot of boys, 
For love of life make heaps of noise : 
Such noise, — there is no gladder sound 
In all the glad year's tuneful round; 
Such placid anger, peaceful rage — 
What actors on what airy stage, 
What comedy for what a wage! 
Children and birds and autumn trees, — 
The world were well content with these. 

When bloody William and his son 

Are safely dead at last, and one 

May go believing there's no dearth 

Of glory yet upon the Earth, — 

A glory, not of fire and smoke 

And things that burst and blind and choke, 



HEREAFTER 227 



A wonder, not of eyes that turn 
To some new thing to blast and burn, 
A wisdom, not of thrusts and stabs 
And stripes and stars and scarlet tabs, 
A worship, not of poisoned breath 
And little children done to death, — 
These shall delight my soul at last 
When then is now and now is past, 
Where the many-scented dews distil 
In the wood by Highgate on the Hill. 
There I shall find forgotten themes, 
And empty husks of faded dreams 
Whose seed, far scattered, soon or late, 
Shall find soft soil and germinate; 
Remember I am still a boy 
And haply rediscover joy, 
Youth and all that follows after 
Vanished vision and lost laughter. 
All the wood will shout and sing 
At my great remembering. 
Ev'ry leaf will be a voice 
Tuned to welcome and rejoice, 
Sky and wind and blade and tree 
Stretch forth hands to welcome me. 

Deep in the wood lie hidden springs 
Of half of life's delightful things. 
A stirring leaf, a bird in flight 
Will start soft flames of coloured light 
That leap and dance and flash and burn 
Through waving grass and feathery fern. 
Music will tell an ancient tale 
When moonrise wakes a nightingale. 



228 POETS MILITANT 

Here is the rich, sweet smell of earth, 

Movement and melody and mirth: 

Such mirth as flashes from the eyes 

Of Gabriel in Paradise, 

Such melody as when he sings, 

Such movement as his flaming wings, 

For woods and Paradise are one 

When seen beneath an autumn sun. 

I shall be home again and hear 

Sounds that subdue the soul's worst fear. 

I shall be home again and find 

All that is pitiful and kind, 

Healing for nerves left torn and sore 

By red monotony of War. 

O Wood by Highgate on the Hill, 
When fighting 's over be there still ! 

Ronald Lewis Carton 



KEEPING THE SEAS 



WIRELESS 

Now to those who search the deep — 
Gleam of Hope and Kindly Light, — 

Once, before you turn to sleep, 

Breathe a message through the night. 

Never doubt that they'll receive it. 

Send it, once, and you '11 believe it. 

Think you these aerial wires 

Whisper more than spirits may? 

Think you that our strong desires 
Touch no distance when we pray? 

Think you that no wings are flying 

'Twixt the living and the dying? 

Inland, here, upon your knees, 
You shall breathe from urgent lips 

Round the ships that guard your seas 
Fleet on fleet of angel ships; 

Yea, the guarded may so bless them 

That no terrors can distress them. 

You shall guide the darkling prow, 
Kneeling — thus — and far inland; 

You shall touch the storm-beat brow 
Gently as a spirit-hand. 

Even a blindfold prayer may speed them, 

And a little child may lead them. 

Alfred Noyes 



232 KEEPING THE SEAS 

f 

"THE VINDICTIVE" 

How should we praise those lads of the old Vindic- 
tive 
Who looked Death straight in the eyes, 
Till his gaze fell, 
In those red gates of hell? 

England, in her proud history, proudly enrolls them, 
And the deep night in her remembering skies 
With purer glory 
Shall blazon their grim story. 

There were no throngs to applaud that hushed adven- 
ture. 
They were one to a thousand on that fierce emprise. 
The shores they sought 
Were armoured, past all thought. 

Oh, they knew fear, be assured, as the brave must 
know it, 
With youth and its happiness bidding their last 
good-byes; 
Till thoughts, more dear 
Than life, cast out all fear. 

For if, as we think, they remembered the brown- 
roofed homesteads, 
And the scent of the hawthorn hedges when daylight 
dies, 
Old happy places, 
Young eyes and fading faces; 



THE VINDICTIVE 233 

One dream was dearer that night than the best of their 
boyhood, 
One hope more radiant than any their hearts could 
prize — 
The touch of your hand, 
The light of your face, England! 

So, age to age shall tell how they sailed through the 
darkness, 
Where, under those high, austere, implacable stars, 
Not one in ten 
Might look for a dawn again. 

They saw the ferryboats, Iris and Daffodil, creeping 
Darkly as clouds to the shimmering mine-strewn 
bars, 
Flash into light! 
Then thunder reddened the night. 

The wild white swords of the searchlights blinded and 
stabbed them. 
The sharp black shadows fought in fantastic wars. 
Black waves leapt whitening, 
Red decks were washed with lightning. 

But, under the twelve-inch guns of the black land- 
batteries, 
The hacked bright hulk, in a glory of crackling spars, 
Moved to her goal 
Like an immortal soul, 

That, while its raw rent flesh in a furnace is tortured, 
Reigns by a law no agony ever can shake, 



234 KEEPING THE SEAS 

And shines in power 

Above all shocks of the hour. 

Oh, there, while the decks ran blood and the star-shells 
lightened, 
The shattering ship that the enemy never could break 
Swept through the fire 
And grappled her heart's desire. 

There, on a wreck that blazed with the soul of Eng- 
land, 
The lads that died in the dark for England's sake 
Knew, as they died, 
Nelson was at their side; 

Nelson, and all the ghostly fleets of his island, 

Fighting beside them there, and the soul of Drake ! — 
Dreams, as we knew, 
Till these lads made them true. 

How should we praise you, lads of the old Vindictive, 
Who looked Death straight in the eyes, 
Till his gaze fell, 
In those red gates of hell ? 

Alfred Noyes 

""the chivalry of the sea 

(Dedicated to the memory of Charles Fisher, late student of Christ 
Church, Oxford.) 

Over the warring waters, beneath the wandering skies, 
The heart of Britain roameth, the Chivalry of the sea, 
Where Spring never bringeth a flower, nor bird singeth 
in a tree; 



THE CHIVALRY OF THE SEA 235 

Far, afar, O beloved, beyond the sight of our eyes, 
Over the warring waters, beneath the stormy skies. 

Staunch and valiant-hearted, to whom our toil were 

play, 
Ye man with armour'd patience the bulwarks night 

and day, 
Or on your iron coursers plough shuddering through 

the Bay, 
Or 'neath the deluge drive the skirmishing sharks of war : 
Venturous boys who leapt on the pinnace and row'd 

from shore, 
A mother's tear in the eye, a swift farewell to say, 
And a great glory at heart that none can take away. 

Seldom is your home-coming; for aye your pennon flies 
In unrecorded exploits on the tumultuous wave; 
Till, in the storm of battle, fast- thundering upon the 

foe, 
Ye add your kindred names to the heroes of long ago, 
And mid the blasting wrack, in the glad sudden death 

of the brave, 
Ye are gone to return no more. — Idly our tears arise; 
Too proud for praise as ye lie in your unvisited grave, 
The wide-warring water, under the starry skies. 

Robert Bridges 

THE BATTLE OF THE BIGHT 

Had I that fabled herb 

Which brought to life the dead, 

Whom would I dare disturb 
In his eternal bed? 



236 KEEPING THE SEAS 

Great Grenville would I wake, 
And with glad tidings make 
The soul of mighty Drake 
Upheave a glorying head. 

As rose the misty sun, 

Our men the North Sea scanned, 
And each rejoicing gun 

Welcomed a foe at hand, 
Eager, with thunderous throat, 
To sound, for all afloat, 
The world-awakening note 

The world can understand. 

For ev'n as birds of night, 

Hoary and tawny owl, 
Do sometimes brave the light, 

Like bolder, nobler fowl, 
So did the foe that day 
Come venturing forth for prey, 
Where, on the ocean way, 
Our ocean watchdogs prowl. 

But brief and plain, 'mid men 

Not born to yield or flee, 
Our cannon spoke out then 

The speech that keeps us free, 
And battered, with hoarse boom, 
Four warships to their doom, 
While one, to a fiercer tomb, 
Fled blazing down the sea. 

Sleep on, O Drake, sleep well, 
In days not wholly dire! 



SONG OF THE GUNS AT SEA 237 

Grenville, whom nought could quell, 

Unquenched is still thy fire. 
And thou that hadst no peer, 
Nelson, thou need'st not fear! 
Thy sons and heirs are here, 

And shall not shame their sire. 

William Watson 



THE SONG OF THE GUNS AT SEA 

Oh hear! Oh hear! 

Across the sullen tide 

Across the echoing dome horizon-wide 

What pulse of fear 

Beats with tremendous ;boom? 

What call of instant doom, 

With thunderstroke of terror and of pride, 

With urgency that may not be denied, 

Reverberates upon the heart's own drum 

Come! . . . Come! ... for thou must come! 

Come forth, O Soul! 

This is thy day of power. 

This is the day and this the glorious hour 

That was the goal 

Of thy self-conquering strife. 

The love of child and wife, 

The fields of Earth and the wide ways of 

Thought — 
Did not thy purpose count them all as nought 
That in this moment thou thyself mayst give 
And in thy country's life for ever live? 



238 KEEPING THE SEAS 

Therefore rejoice 

That in thy passionate prime 
Youth's nobler hope disdained the spoils of Time 
And thine own choice 
Fore-earned for thee this day. 
Rejoice! rejoice to obey 
In the great hour of life that men call Death 
The beat that bids thee draw heroic breath, 
Deep-throbbing till thy mortal heart be dumb' 
Come! . . . Come! . . . the time is come! 

Henry Newbolt 

THE MERCHANTMEN 

The skippers and the mates, they know! 

The men aloft or down below, 

They've heard the news and still they go. 

The merchant ships still jog along 
By Bay or Cape, an endless throng, 
As endless as a seaman's song. 

The humbler tramps aloft display 
The English flag as on the day 
When no one troubled such as they. 

The lesser ships — barks, schooners, brigs — 
A motley crowd of many rigs, 
Go on their way like farmers' gigs. 

Where iEolus himself has thrones 
The big four-master Glasgow owns 
Through Trades and Roaring Forties drones. 



THE MERCHANTMEN 239 

The lofty liners in their pride 
Stem every current, every tide: 
At anchor in all ports they ride. 

They signal Gib., which looks and winks; 
Grave Malta sees them as she thinks; 
They pass old Egypt's ageless Sphinx. 

Sokotra knows them; Zanzibar 
Mirrors them in its oil : they are 
Hove to for pilots near and far. 

For them Belle Isle and bright Penmarch 
Shine million-candled through the dark, 
They're inside Ushant, or by Sark. 

Perim and Ormuz and Cochin 
Know them and nod : the mingled din 
Of cities where strange idols grin. 

The wharves of sea-set Singapore, 
Batavia and Colombo's shore, 
Where over palms the monsoons roar. 

The opened parts of shut Japan, 
Chemulpo's harbour and Gensan, 
Strange places, Chinese, Formosan! 

Head-hunters watch them in close seas, 

Timor, Gilolo, Celebes, 

They sail by the New Hebrides. 

Their spars are tried by southern gales, 
Great alien stars shine on their sails 
Set for the breeze or in the brails. 



240 KEEPING THE SEAS 

To carry home their golden rape 
A thousand courses still they shape 
By the lone Horn or windy Cape. 

They 've seen the hot seas' dreadful drouth, 
The bitter gales of Sixty South, 
Disasters fell and greedy mouth: 

The menace of the berg and floe, 
The blindness of the fog and snow, 
All these the English seamen know. 

From Sydney to San Salvador 

They know what they are seeking for: 

Their gods are not the gods of war. 

And still they calmly jog along 

By Bay and Cape, an endless throng, 

As endless as some dog-watch song. 

Morley Roberts 

WHERE KITCHENER SLEEPS 

O grim and iron-bastioned, 

Tumultuous Orcades; 
Of vast and awful maelstroms, 

And eagle-taloned seas; — 
Great is your cruel sovereignty, 

But greater than all your might, 
Was he, this strong world-captain, 

Who entered your halls to-night. 

Wild were the headland skerries, 
And wilder the sunset's frown, 



AFTER JUTLAND 241 



And the kelpie lords were abroad in the dark, 

When Kitchener went down; 
Down in the hour of duty, 

His worldwide task scarce done, 
'Mid the thunder of cannonading surfs, 

And the searchlight gleam of the sun. 

What fitter and truer ending, 

Than greatly thus to die, 
Called to his sleep in the kingly deep, 

'Mid the pageant of water and sky; 
To sink to his long, last slumber, 

With Ocean to cradle his form; 
And draw round the sweep of his lordly sleep 

The mighty curtains of storm! 

Yes, famed is the storied abbey 

Where slumber our kingly dead; 
And solemn the lofty-domed St. Paul's 

Where the last sad rites are said; 
But where in all earth's sepulchres 

For this iron soul more meet, 
Than to keep his rest where the titan surfs 

Thunder at Bursay's feet? 

Wilfred Campbell 

AFTER JUTLAND 

The City of God is late become a seaport town 

For the clean and bronzed sailors walking up and 

down 
And the bearded Commanders, the Captains so brave, 
Bringing there the taste of the sea from the salt sea 

wave. 



242 KEEPING THE SEAS 

There are boys in the City's streets make holiday 
And all around are playing-fields and the boys at play; 
They dive in clear waters, climb many a high tree, 
They look out as they used to do for a ship at sea. 

The sailor keeps a clean soul on the seas untrod; 
There is room in the great spaces for the Vision of God 
Walking on the waters, bidding him not fear; 
He has the very cleanest eyes a man can wear. 

There 's salt wind in Heaven and the salt sea-spray, 
And the little midshipmen boys are shouting at their 

play, 
There's a soft sound of waters lapping on the shore, 
The sailor he is home from sea to go back no more. 

Katharine Tynan 

*^DFF HELIGOLAND 

Ghostly ships in a ghostly sea, — 

Here's to Drake in the Spanish main! — 
Hark to the turbines, running free, 

Oil-cups full and the orders plain. 
Plunging into the misty night, 

Surging into the rolling brine, 
Never a word, and never a light, — 

This for England, that love of mine! 

Look ! a gleam on the starboard bow, — 
Here 's to the Fighting Temeraire ! 

Quartermaster, be ready now, 
Two points over, and keep her there. 



THE AUXILIARY CRUISER 243 

Ghostly ships — let the foemen grieve. 

Yon 's the Admiral, tight and trim, 
And one more — with an empty sleeve — 

Standing a little aft of him! 

Slender, young, in a coat of blue, — 

Here's to the Agamemnon's pride! — 
Out of the mists that long he knew, 

Out of the Victory, where he died, 
Here, to the battle-front he came. 

See, he smiles in his gallant way! 
Ghostly ships in a ghostly game, 

Roaring guns on a ghostly day! 

There in his white silk smalls he stands, — 

Here's to Nelson, with three times three! — 
Coming out of the misty lands 

Far, far over the misty sea. 
Now the Foe is a crippled wreck, 

Limping out of the deadly fight. 
Smiling yond, on the quarterdeck 

Stands the Spirit, all silver-bright. 

J. Edgar Middleton 



THE AUXILIARY CRUISER 

(H.M. Auxiliary Cruiser has been lost at sea with all hands. It is 

presumed that she struck a mine during the gale on the night of the 12th 
inst. The relatives have been informed. — Admiralty Official.) 

The day closed in a wrath of cloud. The gale — 
Like a fierce beast that shuns the light of day, 
Skulking within the jungle till his prey 
Steals forth at dusk to water at the well, — 



KEEPING THE SEAS 



Now leapt upon her, howling. Steep and swift, 
The black sea boiled about her sky-flung bows, 
And in the shrouds, the winds in mad carouse 
Screamed : and in the sky's pall was no rift. 

And it was cold. Oh, bitter cold it was. 
The wind-whipped spray-drops froze before they fell 
And tinkled on the iron decks like hail; 
And every rope and block was cased in glass. 
And ever wild and wilder grew the night. 
Great seas lunged at her, bellowing in wrath ; 
Contemptuous, to sweep her from their path. 
And not in all that waste one friendly light. 

Alone, spray-blinded, through the clamourous murk, 
By skill and courage besting the hungry sea, 
Mocking the tempest's fury, staggered she. 
The storm is foiled: now for the Devil's work! 
The swinging bows crash down into the trough, 
And with a sudden flame the sea is riven, 
And a dull roar outroars the tempest even. 
Her engine's pulse is stilled. It is enough. 

Oh, have you ever seen a foundered horse — 
His great heart broken by a task too great 
For his endurance, but unbroken yet 
His spirit — striving to complete his course? 
Falling at last, eyes glazed and nostrils wide, 
And have not ached with pity? Pity now 
A brave ship shattered by a coward blow 
That once had spurned the waters in her pride. 

And can you picture — you who dwell secure 

In sheltered houses, warm and filled with light, — 



THE NORTH SEA GROUND 245 

The loneliness and terror of that fight 
In shrieking darkness? Feel with them, (the sure 
Foundation of their very world destroyed), 
The sluggish lifting of the lifeless hull, 
Wallowing ever deeper till, with a dull 
Half-sob she plunges and the seas are void. 

Yet — Oh be sure, they did not pass alone 
Into the darkness all uncomforted; 
For round them hovered England's mighty Dead 
To greet them: and a pale poop Ian thorn shone 
Lighting them homeward, and a voice rang clear — 
As when he cheered his own devoted band — 
"Heaven's as near by sea as by the land," 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert hailed them; "Be of cheer!" 

N. M. F. Corbett 

THE NORTH SEA GROUND 

Oh, Grimsby is a pleasant town as any man may find, 
An' Grimsby wives are thrifty wives, an' Grimsby 

girls are kind, 
An' Grimsby lads were never yet the lads to lag 

behind 
When there's men's work doin' on the North Sea 

ground. 

An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" for the high tide's 

flowin', 
An' off the misty waters a cold wind blowin'; 
Skipper's come aboard, an* it's time that we were 
goin', 
An' there's fine fish waitin' on the North Sea ground. 



246 KEEPING THE SEAS 

Soles in the Silver Pit — an' there we'll let 'em lie; 
Cod on the Dogger — oh, we'll fetch 'em by-an'-by; 
War on the water — an' it's time to serve an' die, 
For there's wild work doin' on the North Sea 
ground. 

An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" they want you at the 
trawlin' 

(With your long sea-boots and your tarry old tar- 
paulin'); 

All across the bitter seas duty comes a-callin' 

In the Winter's weather off the North Sea ground. 

It's well we've learned to laugh at fear — the sea has 

taught us how; 
It's well we've shaken hands with death — we'll not 

be strangers now, 
With death in every climbin' wave before the trawler's 

bow, 
An' the black spawn swimmin' on the North Sea 

ground. 

Good luck to all our fightin' ships that rule the English 

sea; 
Good luck to our brave merchantmen wherever they 

may be; 
The sea it is their highway, an' we 've got to sweep it 

free 
For the ships passin' over on the North Sea ground. 

An' it's "Wake up, Johnnie!" for the sea wind's cry- 
ing; 
"Time an' time to go where the herrin' gulls are fly- 



DESTROYERS 247 

An' down below the stormy seas the dead men lyin', 
Oh, the dead lying quiet on the North Sea ground! 

C. Fox Smith 

[Reprinted by permission of George H. Doran Company and the Proprietors 
of Punch.] 



DESTROYERS 

On this primeval strip of western land, 

With purple bays and tongues of shining sand, 

Time, like an echoing tide, 

Moves drowsily in idle ebb and flow; 

The sunshine slumbers in the tangled grass 

And homely folk with simple greeting pass 

As to their worship or their work they go. 

Man, earth, and sea 

Seem linked in elemental harmony 

And my insurgent sorrow finds release 

In dreams of peace. 

But silent, gray, 

Out of the curtained haze, 

Across the bay 

Two fierce destroyers glide with bows afoam 

And predatory gaze, 

Like cormorants that seek a submerged prey. 

An angel of destruction guards the door 

And keeps the peace of our ancestral home; 

Freedom to dream, to work, and to adore, 

These vagrant days, nights of untroubled breath, 

Are bought with death. 

Henry Head 



248 KEEPING THE SEAS 

OUTWARD BOUND 

There 's a waterfall I 'm leaving 

Running down the rocks in foam, 
There's a pool for which I'm grieving 

Near the water-ouzel's home, 
And it's there that I'd be lying 

With the heather close at hand 
And the curlews faintly crying 

'Mid the wastes of Cumberland. 

While the midnight watch is winging 

Thoughts of other days arise, 
I can hear the river singing 

Like the saints in Paradise; 
I can see the water winking 

Like the merry eyes of Pan, 
And the slow half-pounder sinking 

By the bridge's granite span. 

Ah! to win them back and clamber 

Braced anew with winds I love, 
From the river's stainless amber 

To the morning mist above, 
See through cloud-rifts rent asunder, 

Like a painted scroll unfurled, 
Ridge and hollow rolling under 

To the fringes of the world. 

Now the weary guard are sleeping, 
Now the great propellers churn, 

Now the harbour lights are creeping 
Into emptiness astern, 



OUTWARD BOUND 249 

While the sentry wakes and watches 

Plunging triangles of light 
Where the water leaps and catches 

At our escort in the night. 

Great their happiness who seeing 

Still with unbenighted eyes 
Kin of theirs who gave them being, 

Sun and earth that made them wise* 
Die and feel their embers quicken 

Year by year in summer time, 
When the cotton grasses thicken 

On the hills they used to climb. 

Shall we also be as they be, 

Mingled with our mother clay, 
Or return no more, it may be? 

Who has knowledge, who shall say? 
Yet we hope that from the bosom 

Of our shaggy father Pan, 
When the earth breaks into blossom 

Richer from the dust of man, 

Though the high gods smite and slay us, 

Though we come not whence we go, 
As the host of Menelaus 

Came there many years ago; 
Yet the selfsame wind shall bear us 

From the same departing place 
Out across the Gulf of Saros 

And the peaks of Samothrace: 

We shall pass in summer weather, 
We shall come at eventide, 



250 KEEPING THE SEAS 

Where the fells stand up together 

And all quiet things abide; 
Mixed with cloud and wind and river, 

Sun-distilled in dew and rain, 
One with Cumberland for ever 

We shall go not forth again. 

Nowell Oxland 

% 
WATCHMEN OF THE NIGHT 

Lords of the seas' great wilderness 
The light-grey warships cut the wind; 

The headland dwindles less and less; 

The great waves, breaking, drench and blind 

The stern-faced watcher on the deck, 

While England fades into a speck. 

Afar on that horizon grey 

The sleepy homesteads one by one 

Shine with their cheerful lights as day 
Dies in the valley and is gone, 

While the new moon comes o'er the hill 

And floods the landscape, white and still. 

But outward 'mid the homeless waste 
The battle-fleet held on its way; 

On either side the torn seas raced, 
Over the bridge blew up the spray; 

The quartermaster at the wheel 

Steered through the night his ship of steel. 

Once, from a masthead, blinked a light — 
The Admiral spoke unto the Fleet; 



CAPTAINS ADVENTUROUS 251 



Swift answers flashed along the night, 

The charthouse glimmered through the sleet; 
A bell rang from the engine-room, 
And, ere it ceased — the great guns' boom! 

Then thunder through the silence broke 
And rolled along the sullen deep; 

A hundred guns flashed fire and spoke, 
Which England heard not in her sleep 

Nor dreamed of, while her fighting sons 

Fed and fired the blazing guns. 

Dawn broke in England, sweet and clear; 

Birds in the brake, the lark in heaven 
Made musical the morning air; 

But distant, shattered, scorched and riven, 
Gathered the ships — aye, dawn was well 
After the night's dark, raging hell. 

But some came not with break of light, 
Nor looked upon the saffron dawn; 

They keep the watch of endless Night, 
On the soft breast of ocean borne. 

O waking England, rise and pray 

For sons who guard thee night and day! 

Scapa Flow, May, 1916 Cecil Roherts 

CAPTAINS ADVENTUROUS 

Captains adventurous, from your ports of quiet, 
From the ghostly harbours, where your sea-beat 
galleons lie, 

Say, do your dreams go back across the sea-line 
Where cliffs of England rise grey against the sky? 



252 KEEPING THE SEAS 

Say, do you dream of the pleasant ports of old-time — 
Orchards of old Devon, all afoam with snowy bloom? 

Or have the mists that veil the Sea of Shadows 
Closed from your eyes all the memories of home? 

Feet of the Captains hurry through the stillness, 
Ghostly sails of galleons are drifting to and fro, 

Voices of mariners sound across the shadows, 
Waiting the word that shall bid them up and go. 

"Lo, now," they say, "for the grey old Mother calls 
us," 
(Listening to the thunder of the guns about her 
shore) 
"Death shall not hold us, nor years that lie between us, 
Sail we to England to strike for her once more." 

Captains adventurous, rest ye in your havens, 

Pipe your ghostly mariners to keep their watch 
below, 

Sons of your sons are here to strike for England, 
Heirs of your glory — Beatty, Jellicoe. 

Yet shall your names ring on in England's story, 
You who were the prophets of the mighty years to 
be, 
Drake, Blake and Nelson, thundering down the ages, 
Captains adventurous, the Masters of the Sea. 

Norah M. Holland 



THE AIRMEN 



TO THE WINGLESS VICTORY 

A Prayer 

Wingless Victory, whose shrine 

By the Parthenon 
Glorified our youth divine, 
Hearken ! — they are gone, 
The young eagles of our nest, 
They, the brightest, bravest, best, 
They are flown! 

Lilies of France, 

When first they flew, 
Led their lone advance 
Great heaven through; 
Now soar they, brood on brood, 
Like stars for multitude, 
To France! France! 

Save thou the golden flight 

That wakes the morn, 
And dares the azure height, 

The tempests scorn ! 

Save them o'er land and sea, 

In deeps of air! 
Thy grace, where'er they be 

Ensphere them there! 

Save them, the country's pride, 
Our winged youth! 



256 THE AIRMEN 

And where they fall enskied, 
Save thou the truth! 
O Wingless Victory! 

George Edward Woodberry 

LETTER TO AN AVIATOR IN FRANCE 

A slope of summer sprinkled over 
With sweet tow-headed pigmy clover 
Melts suddenly to emerald air 
Between the moving leaves : for where 
The terrace plunges noiselessly, 
A woven wall of appletree 
(Bearing instead of apples now 
The redwinged blackbird on the bough,) 
Enchants the lawn of sun-stained green 
To seem as though it had not been. 
From where I sit, no roots are there 
Nor gnarly trunks show anywhere: 
Only the thick-leaved upper boughs 
Close-clustered for the robin's house. 
And tall above them up the sky 
The clear lake quivers like some high 
Wind-ruffled huge crystalline tree 
Whose roots like theirs are hid from me. 
It must have light and air and room, 
With clouds for leaves and hills for bloom, 
Those pale blue hills that flower along 
The living branches wild and strong — 
I hear you laugh and say: 

" Why make 
A tree of crystal from the lake ? 
Of course you may if you prefer 



LETTER TO AN AVIATOR 257 

Shape forests out of lake-water, 

Great stems of sapphire, shedding light ! 

I understand you. It 's all right. 

But since you are in fantastic mood, 

Build me a shelter in that wood 

To keep June sounds and colors in, 

And shut out the infernal din 

Of war my ears have heard and heard 

Until no meaning lights the word!" 

Well, when it's done and you come home, 

Lift up the latch of gilded foam 

And enter the transparent door 

And cross the grooved and shining floor 

Of a new house I'm building, sir, 

Of foam and wind on lake-water, 

With walls intangible about 

The inner rooms, to keep war out! 

But this is nonsense. I have lost 
My whim. Your laugh recalled has cost 
So many Spanish castles, dear! 
And I confess there's no tree here 
Heaven-tall, with hills upon its boughs, 
No sheltering sunlight-raftered house, 
But only water wide and bare, 
And distant shore and empty air, 
And far away across the world 
A proud enduring flag unfurled. 

Yet you and I could never live 
But for the respite that dreams give. 
Your letters have their intervals, 
Their hints of magic : a bird calls 



258 THE AIRMEN 

Or a strange cloud goes by. You hear 

Music unknown to mortal ear, 

And as you said in other days, 

"Last night I dreamed" your message says. 

So in the end, I scorn your laughter, 

Lord of my secret thoughts ! And after 

War will come peace, you'll not deny, 

And wider light for dreaming by. 

Now, let's pretend as children do: 

It is my way of reaching you. 

Blue Vermont hills we'll say, are fruit 

Which I may pluck, when it shall suit 

My mood, and send like grapes to you, 

All honey-rich and webbed with dew, 

Packed in their cloudy leaves and cool 

Of color like a twilight pool. 

And if you've wandered past the sky 

On some new errand, comrade, I 

Shall climb the tree the fruit grew on 

To see which road it is you've gone. 

How shall I plan to overtake 

Those wings of yours? And I must make 

In time to welcome you, a proud 

White castle of some mountain cloud — 

But no more now. . . . The old clock clangs 

Somewhere within. A veery hangs 

Small golden wreaths along the alder, 

And mother Robin's babies called her 

Just now from their leaf -hidden room, 

And sunset roses are in bloom. 

Grace Hazard Conkling 
Lake Champlain, June, 1918 



TO A CANADIAN AVIATOR 259 

^TO A CANADIAN AVIATOR WHO DIED 
FOR HIS COUNTRY IN FRANCE 

Tossed like a falcon from the hunter's wrist, 
A sweeping plunge, a sudden shattering noise, 
And thou hast dared, with a long spiral twist, 
The elastic stairway to the rising sun. 
Peril below thee, and above, peril 
Within thy car; but peril cannot daunt 
Thy peerless heart: gathering wing and poise, 
Thy plane transfigured, and thy motor-chant 
Subdued to a whisper — then a silence, — 
And thou art but a disembodied venture 
In the void. 

But Death, who has learned to fly, 

Still matchless when his work is to be done, 

Met thee between the armies and the sun; 

Thy speck of shadow faltered in the sky; 

Then thy dead engine and thy broken wings 

Drooped through the arc and passed in fire, 

A wreath of smoke — a breathless exhalation. 

But ere that came a vision sealed thine eyes, 

Lulling thy senses with oblivion; 

And from its sliding station in the skies 

Thy dauntless soul upward in circles soared 

To the sublime and purest radiance whence it sprang. 

In all their eyries eagles shall mourn thy fate, 
And leaving on the lonely crags and scaurs 
Their unprotected young, shall congregate 
High in the tenuous heaven and anger the sun 
With screams, and with a wild audacity 



260 THE AIRMEN 

Dare all the battle danger of thy flight; 
Till weary with combat one shall desert the light, 
Fall like a bolt of thunder and check his fall 
On the high ledge, smoky with mist and cloud, 
Where his neglected eaglets shriek aloud, 
And drawing the film across his sovereign sight 
Shall dream of thy swift soul immortal 
Mounting in circles, faithful beyond death. 

Duncan Campbell Scott 

CAPTAIN GUYNEMER 

What high adventure, in what world afar, 

Follows to-day, 

Mid ampler air, 

Heroic Guynemer? 

What star, 

Of all the myriad planets of our night, 

Is by his glowing presence made more bright 

Who chose the Dangerous way, 

Scorning, while brave men died, ignobly safe to stay? 

Into the unknown Vast, 

Where few could follow him, he passed, — 

On to the gate — the shadowy gate — 

Of the Forbidden, 

Seeking the knowledge jealous Fate 

Had still so carefully from mortals hidden. 

With vision falcon-keen, 

His eyes beheld what others had not seen, 

And his soul, with as clear a gaze, 

Pierced through each clouded maze 

Straight to the burning heart of things, and knew 

The lying from the true. 



SEARCHLIGHTS 261 



A dweller in Immensity, 

Of naught afraid, 

He saw the havoc Tyranny had made, — 

Saw the relentless tide of War's advance, 

And high of heart and free, 

Vowed his young life to Liberty — 

And France! 

Compiegne! be proud of him — thy son, — 

The greatest of the eagle brood, — 

Who with intrepid soul the foe withstood, 

And rests, his victories won! 

Mourn not uncomforted, but rather say: — 

His wings were broken, but he led the way 

Where myriad stronger wings shall follow; 

For Wrong shall not hold lasting sway, 

To break the World's heart, nor betray 

With cruel pledges hollow ! 

To us the battle draweth near. 
We dedicate ourselves again, 
Remembering, O Compiegne! 
Thy Charioteer — 

Thy peerless one, who died to make men free, 
And in Man's grateful heart shall live immortally! 

Florence Earle Coates 

SEARCHLIGHTS 

You who have seen across the star-decked skies 
The long white arms of searchlights slowly sweep, 
Have you imagined what it is to creep 

High in the darkness, cold and terror-wise, 



262 THE AIRMEN 



For ever looked for by those cruel eyes 

Which search with far-flung beams the shadowy 

deep, 
And near the wings unending vigil keep 

To haunt the lonely airman as he flies? 

Have you imagined what it is to know 
That if one finds you all their fierce desire 

To see you fall will dog you as you go, 
High in a sea of light and bursting fire, 

Like some small bird, lit up and blinding white, 

Which slowly moves across the shell-torn night? 

Paul Bewsker 



THE WOUNDED 



TRAFALGAR SQUARE 

Fool that I was! my heart was sore, 

Yea, sick for the myriad wounded men, 

The maim'd in the war: I had grief for each one: 

And I came in the gay September sun 

To the open smile of Trafalgar Square, 

Where many a lad with a limb foredone 

Loll'd by the lion-guarded column 

That holdeth Nelson statued thereon 

Upright in the air. 

The Parliament towers, and the Abbey towers, 

The white Horseguards and grey Whitehall, 

He looketh on all, 

Past Somerset House and the river's bend 

To the pillar'd dome of St. Paul, 

That slumbers, confessing God's solemn blessing 

On Britain's glory, to keep it ours — 

While children true her prowess renew 

And throng from the ends of the earth to defend 

Freedom and honour — till Earth shall end. 

The gentle unjealous Shakespeare, I trow, 

In his country grave of peaceful fame 

Must feel exiled from life and glow, 

If he thinks of this man with his warrior claim, 

Who looketh on London as if 't were his own, 

As he standeth in stone, aloft and alone, 

Sailing the sky, with one arm and one eye. 

Robert Bridges 
October, 1917 



266 THE WOUNDED 

CONVALESCENCE 

From out the dragging vastness of the sea, 

Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous seaweed strands, 
He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands 

One moment, white and dripping, silently, 

Cut like a cameo in lazuli, 

Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands 
Prone in the jeering water, and his hands 

Clutch for support where no support can be. 
So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, 

He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow 

And sandflies dance their little lives away. 
The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch 

The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, 

And in the sky there blooms the sun of May. 

Amy Lowell 

GASSED 

He is blind and nevermore 
Shall the shining earth entrance 
Him, whose life once lay before 
Ardour like a bright romance; 
But another world is given 
Youth thus robbed of half a heaven. 

His companions do not speak 
When they would accost him : they 
Need but touch his hand or cheek, 
Then the sightless eyes survey 
Love with love, which apprehends 
Instantly compassionate friends. 



GASSED 267 

In each several kindly hand 
Lies a warm identity: 
Blind folk see and understand 
Those whom they may never see, 
And the deaf may hear Love's word 
Uttered, though it be unheard. 

When he walks about the streets 
Every house means much to him; 
Every wayfarer he meets 
Modest-faced or proudly prim — 
He divines : each rolling wheel's 
Movement in the town he feels. 

Eden's gates to him are closed, 
Yet new portals open wide, 
Whence rare prospects are exposed; 
These he visions open-eyed, 
When imagination thrills 
As he faces woods and hills. 

Every breath of air that stirs 
Has a meaning : every leaf, 
Touched by him, responds; the firs 
Breathe a recompense for grief, 
And the grasses whisper, too, 
Words he does not misconstrue. 

Few can hear the clover's voice 
As he hears it: few are those 
Who so thrillingly rejoice 
When the gillyflowers disclose 



268 THE WOUNDED 

Secrets that mean life to one 
Robbed of stars, though not of sun. 

Touch becomes his very soul, 
Giving sense of sound with sight: 
He is ravaged yet made whole 
Even in black fate's despite: 
Look! He carries sad renown 
As an emperor wears a crown! 

Deaf and blind! Yet he will know 

When old enemies cross his path; 

For the devil-prompted foe, 

Who inspired his quenchless wrath, 

With incredible torment, gave 

Gifts that make him more than brave. 

Rowland Thirlmere 



INVALIDED 

He limps along the city street, 

Men pass him with a pitying glance; 

He is not there, but on the sweet 
And troubled plains of France. 

Once more he marches with the guns, 
Reading the way by merry signs, 

His Regent Street through trenches runs, 
His Strand among the pines. 

For there his comrades jest and fight, 
And others sleep in that fair land; 



THE RED CROSS NURSE 269 

They call him back in dreams of night 
To join their dwindling band. 

He may not go; on him must lie 

The doom, through peaceful years to live, 

To have a sword he cannot ply, 
A life he cannot give. 

Edward Shillito 

THE RED CROSS NURSE 

The battle-smoke still fouled the day, 
With bright disaster flaming through; 

Unchecked, absorbed, she held her way — 
The whispering death still past her flew. 

A cross of red was on her sleeve; 

And here she stayed, the wound to bind, 
And there, the fighting soul relieve, 

That strove its Unknown Peace to find. 

A cross of red . . . yet one has dreamed 

Of her he loved and left in tears; 
But unto dying sight she seemed 

A visitant from other spheres. 

The whispering death — it nearer drew, 
It holds her heart in strict arrest . . . 

And where was one, are crosses two — 
A crimson cross is on her breast ! 

Edith M. Thomas 



THE FALLEN 



HIC JACET 

QUI IN HOC SAECULO FIDELITER 

MILITAVIT 

He that has left hereunder 

The signs of his release 
Feared not the battle's thunder 

Nor hoped that wars should cease; 
No hatred set asunder 

His warfare from his peace. 

Nor feared he in his sleeping 

To dream his work undone, 
To hear the heathen sweeping 

Over the lands he won; 
For he has left in keeping 

His sword unto his son. 

Henry Newbolt 

LAMENT 

We who are left, how shall we look again 
Happily on the sun, or feel the rain, 
Without remembering how they who went 
Ungrudgingly, and spent 
Their all for us, loved, too, the sun and rain? 

A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings — 
But we, how shall we turn to little things 
And listen to the birds and winds and streams 
Made holy by their dreams, 
Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things? 

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 



274 THE FALLEN 

IN FLANDERS FIELDS 

[Reprinted by permission of the Proprietors of Punch.] 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 
Between the crosses, row on row, 
That mark our place; and in the sky 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the Dead. Short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
Loved and were loved, and now we lie 
In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe : 
To you from failing hands we throw 
The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 
In Flanders fields. 

John McCrae 

THE ANXIOUS DEAD 

O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear 
Above their heads the legions pressing on : 

(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear 
And died not knowing how the day had gone.) 

O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see 
The coming dawn that streaks the day afar: 

Then let your mighty chorus witness be 

To them, and Caesar, that we still make war. 



HARROW GRAVE IN FLANDERS 275 

Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call, 
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside, 

That we will onward, till we win or fall, 

That we will keep the faith for which they died. 

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, 
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep, 

Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn, 
And in content may turn them to their sleep. 

John McCrae 

VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 

God, I am travelling out to death's sea, 

I, who exulted in sunshine and laughter, 
Thought not of dying — death is such waste of me! 

Grant me one comfort : Leave not the hereafter 
Of mankind to war, as though I had died not — 

I, who in battle, my comrade's arm linking, 
Shouted and sang — life in my pulses hot 

Throbbing and dancing! Let not my sinking 
In dark be for naught, my death a vain thing ! 

God, let me know it the end of man's fever! 
Make my last breath a bugle call, carrying 

Peace o'er the valleys and cold hills, for ever! 

John Galsworthy 

[From A Sheaf. Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons.] 

A HARROW GRAVE IN FLANDERS 

Here in the marshland, past the battered bridge, 

One of a hundred grains untimely sown, 
Here, with his comrades of the hard-won ridge, 
He rests, unknown. 



276 THE FALLEN 

His horoscope had seemed so plainly drawn, — 

School triumphs, earned apace in work and play; 
Friendships at will; then love's delightful dawn 
And mellowing day; 

Home fostering hope; some service to the State; 

Benignant age; then the long tryst to keep 
Where in the yew-tree shadow congregate 
His fathers sleep. 

Was here the one thing needful to distil 

From life's alembic, through this holier fate, 
The man's essential soul, the hero will? 
We ask; and wait. 

Crewe 

RIDDLES, R.F.C. 1 

(1916) 

He was a boy of April beauty; one 

Who had not tried the world; who, while the sun 

Flamed yet upon the eastern sky, was done. 

Time would have brought him in her patient ways — 
So his young beauty spoke — to prosperous days, 
To fulness of authority and praise. 

He would not wait so long. A boy, he spent 
His boy's dear life for England. Be content: 
No honour of age had been more excellent. 

John Drinkwater 

1 Lieutenant S. G. Ridley, Royal Flying Corps, sacrificed 
his life in the Egyptian desert in an attempt to save a com- 
rade. He was twenty years of age. 



THE ARMY OF THE DEAD 277 

THE DEAD 

When you see millions of the mouthless dead 

Across your dreams in pale battalions go, 

Say not soft things as other men have said, 

That you '11 remember. For you need not so. 

Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know 

It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? 

Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow. 

Nor honour. It is easy to be dead. 

Say only this, "They are dead." Then add thereto, 

"Yet many a better one has died before." 

Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you 

Perceive one face that you loved heretofore, 

It is a spook. None wears the face you knew. 

Great death has made all his for evermore. 

Charles Hamilton Sorley 

THE ARMY OF THE DEAD 

I dreamed that overhead 
I saw in twilight grey 
The Army of the Dead 
Marching upon its way, 
So still and passionless, 
With faces so serene, 
That scarcely could one guess 
Such men in war had been. 

No mark of hurt they bore, 
Nor smoke, nor bloody stain; 
Nor suffered any more 
Famine, fatigue, or pain; 



278 THE FALLEN 

Nor any lust of hate 
Now lingered in their eyes — 
Who have fulfilled their fate, 
Have lost all enmities. 

A new and greater pride 
So quenched the pride of race 
That foes marched side by side 
Who once fought face to face. 
That ghostly army's plan 
Knows but one race, one rod — 
All nations there are Man, 
And the one King is God. 

No longer on their ears 
The bugle's summons falls; 
Beyond these angled spheres 
The Archangel's trumpet calls; 
And by that trumpet led 
Far up the exalted sky 
The Army of the Dead 
Goes by, and still goes by — 

Look upward, standing mute; 
Salute ! 

Barry Pain 

THE SPECTRAL ARMY 

I dream that on far heaven's steep 
To-night Christ lets me stand by Him 
To see the many million ghosts 
Tramp up Death's highway, wide and dim. 



TO A DOG 279 

The young are older than the old, 
Their eyes are strained, their faces gray 
With horror's twilight dropped too soon 
Upon a scarcely opened day. 

The guns move light as carven mist, 

The weary footsteps make no sound, 

As up the never-ending hill 

They come on their last death-march bound. 

Their heads are lifted. As they pass 
They look at Christ's red wounds, and smile 
In gallant comradeship : they know 
Golgotha's terrible defile. 

They too have drained a bitter gall, 
Heart's Calvary they know full well, 
And every man, or old or young, 
Has stared into the deeps of Hell. 

Yet brave and gay that spectral host 
Goes by. Like Christ, on bloody sod 
They gladly paid a price, like Him 
They left the Reckoning to God. 

G. 0. Warren 

TO A DOG 

Past happiness dissolves. It fades away, 
Ghost-like, in that dim attic of the mind 
To which the dreams of childhood are consigned. 

Here, withered garlands hang in slow decay, 

And trophies glimmer in the dying ray 

Of stars that once with heavenly glory shined. 



280 THE FALLEN 

But you, old friend, are you still left behind 
To tell the nearness of life's yesterday? 

Ah, boon companion of my vanished boy, 
For you he lives; in every sylvan walk 
He waits; and you expect him everywhere, 
How would you stir, what cries, what bounds of joy, 
If but his voice were heard in casual talk, 
If but his footstep sounded on the stair! 

John Jay Chapman 

FOR FRANCIS LEDWIDGE 

(Killed in action July 31, 1917) 

You fell; and on a distant field, shell-shatter'd, 
Soaked with blood; while, in your dying, Erin 
Knew naught of you, nor folded you for rest. 
You will not sleep beneath a mound where kings 
Were coffin' d long ago in carven stone 
And dream in peace amid an emerald land 
Of many memories and swift-wing'd song. 
And yet I think that you are not forgotten; 
For even in the Irish air there will be 
Somewhat of you; in the wide beam of sunlight 
Streaming athwart the mountain to the fields 
Furrowed and brown, where languid rooks, and gulls 
With their sharp crying, circle, or sit and sun 
Themselves. The song of birds shall speak of you : 
The blackbird chirping cheerily of spring, 
When hawthorn blows and gorse runs through the 

hedge; 
The lark lost in the morning; and the stream 
Sparkling, or dark with pools, where salmon leap. 



RUPERT BROOKE 281 

You will not be forgotten; for your songs 
Have brought the beauty of the Irish land 
To many dimming eyes and homesick hearts. 
Poet and Soldier, could your land forget? 
For you each morning shall her fields be wet. 
Norreys Jephson 0' Conor 

THE LAST HERO 

We laid him to rest with tenderness; 
Homeward we turned in the twilight's gold; 
We thought in ourselves with dumb distress — 
All the story of earth is told. 

A beautiful word at the last was said : 
A great deep heart like the hearts of old 
Went forth; and the speaker had lost the thread, 
Or all the story of earth was told. 

The dust hung over the pale dry ways 
Dizzily fired with the twilight's gold, 
And a bitter remembrance blew in each face 
How all the story of earth was told. 

A. E. 

RUPERT BROOKE » 
I 

Your face was lifted to the golden sky 

Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square 
As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in air 

Its tumult of red stars exultantly 

1 Copyright by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson in the United States 
of America, April, 1916. 



%m THE FALLEN 

To the cold constellations dim and high: 
And as we neared the roaring ruddy flare 
Kindled to gold your throat and brow and hair 

Until you burned, a flame of ecstasy. 

The golden head goes down into the night 

Quenched in cold gloom — and yet again you stand 

Beside me now with lifted face alight, 

As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn . . . 
Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn, 

And look into my eyes and take my hand. 

II 

Once in my garret — you being far away 
Tramping the hills and breathing upland air, 
Or so I fancied — brooding in my chair, 

I watched the London sunshine feeble and grey 

Dapple my desk, too tired to labour more, 
When, looking up, I saw you standing there 
Although I'd caught no footstep on the stair, 

Like sudden April at my open door. 

Though now beyond earth's farthest hills you fare, 
Song-crowned, immortal, sometimes it seems to me 

That, if I listen very quietly, 

Perhaps I '11 hear a light foot on the stair 
And see you, standing with your angel air, 

Fresh from the uplands of eternity. 

Ill 

Your eyes rejoiced in colour's ecstasy, 

Fulfilling even their uttermost desire, 
When, over a great sunlit field afire 
With windy poppies streaming like a sea 



TO RUPERT BROOKE 283 

Of scarlet flame that flaunted riotously 

Among green orchards of that western shire, 
You gazed as though your heart could never tire 

Of life's red flood in summer revelry. 

And as I watched you, little thought had I 
How soon beneath the dim low-drifting sky 

Your soul should wander down the darkling way, 
With eyes that peer a little wistfully, 
Half-glad, half-sad, remembering, as they see 

Lethean poppies, shrivelling ashen grey. 

IV 

October chestnuts showered their perishing gold 
Over us as beside the stream we lay 
In the Old Vicarage garden that blue day, 

Talking of verse and all the manifold 

Delights a little net of words may hold, 
While in the sunlight water-voles at play 
Dived under a trailing crimson bramble-spray, 

And walnuts thudded ripe on soft black mould. 

Your soul goes down unto a darker stream 

Alone, O friend, yet even in death's deep night 

Your eyes may grow accustomed to the dark 

And Styx for you may have the ripple and gleam 

Of your familiar river, and Charon's bark 

Tarry by that old garden of your delight. 

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 

TO RUPERT BROOKE 

Though we, a happy few, 
Indubitably knew 
That from the purple came 
This poet of pure flame, 



284 THE FALLEN 

The world first saw his light 
Flash on an evil night, 
And heard his song from far 
Above the drone of war. 

Out of the primal dark 
He leapt, like lyric lark, 
Singing his aubade strain; 
Then fell to earth again. 

We garner all he gave, 
And on his hero grave, 
For love and honour strew, 
Rosemary, myrtle, rue. 

Son of the Morning, we 
Had kept you thankfully; 
But yours the asphodel : 
Hail, singer, and farewell! 

Eden Phillpotts 

[From Plain Song, 1914.-1916. Reprinted by permission of William Heine- 
mann, London; and The Macmillan Company, New York.] 



TO THE MEMORY OF FIELD-MARSHAL 
EARL KITCHENER 

Born June 24, 1850. Died on service June 5, 1916. 
[Reprinted by permission of the Proprietors of Punch.] 

Soldier of England, you who served her well 
And in that service, silent and apart, 

Achieved a name that never lost its spell 
Over your country's heart; — 



KITCHENER'S MARCH 285 

Who saw your work accomplished ere at length 
Shadows of evening fell, and creeping Time 

Had bent your stature or resolved the strength 
That kept its manhood prime; — 

Great was your life, and great the end you made, 
As through the plunging seas that whelmed 
your head 

Your spirit passed, unconquered, unafraid, 
To join the gallant dead. 

But not by death that spell could pass away 
That fixed our gaze upon the far-off goal, 

Who, by your magic, stand in arms to-day 
A nation one and whole, 

Now doubly pledged to bring your vision true 
Of darkness vanquished and the dawn set free 

In that full triumph which your faith foreknew 
But might not live to see. 

Owen Seaman 

KITCHENER'S MARCH 

Not the muffled drums for him 

Nor the wailing of the fife. 
Trumpets blaring to the charge 

Were the music of his life. 
Let the music of his death 

Be the feet of marching men. 
Let his heart a thousandfold 

Take the field again! 



Of his patience, of his calm, 
Of his quiet faithfulness, 



286 THE FALLEN 

England, build your hero's cairn! 

He was worthy of no less. 
Stone by stone, in silence laid, 

Singly, surely, let it grow. 
He whose living was to serve 

Would have had it so. 

There's a body drifting down 

For the mighty sea to keep. 
There 's a spirit cannot die 

While one heart is left to leap 
In the land he gave his all, 

Steel-like to praise and hate. 
He has saved the life he spent — 

Death has struck too late. 

Not the muffled drums for him 

Nor the wailing of the fife — 
Trumpets blaring to the charge 

Were the music of his life. 
Let the music of his death 

Be the feet of marching men. 
Let his heart a thousandfold 

Take the field again I 

Amelia Josephine Burr 

[From Life and Living. Copyright, 1917, by George H. Doran Company.] 

EDITH CAVELL 

The world hath its own dead; great motions start 
In human breasts, and make for them a place 
In that hushed sanctuary of the race 

Where every day men come, kneel, and depart. 



BEFORE MARCHING, AND AFTER 287 

Of them, English nurse, henceforth thou art, 
A name to pray on, and to all a face 
Of household consecration; such His grace 

Whose universal dwelling is the heart. 

O gentle hands that soothed the soldier's brow, 
And knew no service save of Christ the Lord ! 
Thy country now is all humanity! 
How like a flower thy womanhood doth show 
In the harsh scything of the German sword, 
And beautifies the world that saw it die! 

George Edward Woodberry 



BEFORE MARCHING, AND AFTER 

(In Memoriam : F. W. G.) 

Orion swung southward aslant 
Where the starved Egdon pine-trees had thinned, 
The Pleiads aloft seemed to pant 
With the heather that twitched in the wind; 
But he looked on indifferent to sights such as these, 
Unswayed by love, friendship, home joy or home 

sorrow, 
And wondered to what he would march on the 
morrow. 

The crazed household clock with its whirr 
Rang midnight within as he stood, 
He heard the low sighing of her 
Who had striven from his birth for his good; 
But he still only asked the spring starlight, the 
breeze, 



288 THE FALLEN 

What great thing or small thing his history would 

borrow 
From that Game with Death he would play on the 

morrow. 

When the heath wore the robe of late summer, 
And the fuchsia-bells, hot in the sun, 
Hung red by the door, a quick comer 
Brought tidings that marching was done 

For him who had joined in that game overseas 

Where Death stood to win; though his memory would 
borrow 

A brightness therefrom not to die on the morrow. 

Thomas Hardy 

September, 1915 

TO OUR DEAD 

Sleep well, heroic souls, in silence sleep, 

Lapped in the circling arms of kindly death! 
No ill can vex your slumbers, no foul breath 

Of slander, hate, derision mar the deep 

Repose that holds you close. Your kinsmen reap 
The harvest you have sown, while each man saith 
"So would I choose, when danger threateneth, 

Let my death be as theirs." We dare not weep. 

For you have scaled the starry heights of fame, 
Nor ever shrunk from peril and distress 

In fight undaunted for the conqueror's prize; 
Therefore your death, engirt with loveliness 
Of simple service done for England's name, 
Shall shine like beacon-stars of sacrifice. 

W. L. Courtney 



TELLING THE BEES 289 

TELLING THE BEES 

(An Old Gloucesteeshire Superstition) 

They dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought and 

who died out there : 
Bugle and drum for him were dumb, and the padre 

said no prayer; 
The passing bell gave never a peal to warn that a soul 

was fled, 
And we laid him not in the quiet spot where cluster 

his kin that are dead. 

But I hear a foot on the pathway, above the low hum 

of the hive, 
That at edge of dark, with the song of the lark, tells 

that the world is alive: 
The master starts on his errand, his tread is heavy 

and slow, 
Yet he cannot choose but tell the news — the bees 

have a right to know. 

Bound by the ties of a happier day, they are one with 

us now in our worst; 
On the very morn that my boy was born they were 

told the tidings the first: 
With what pride they will hear of the end he made, 

and the ordeal that he trod — 
Of the scream of shell, and the venom of hell, and the 

flame of the sword of God. 

Wise little heralds, tell of my boy; in your golden 

tabard coats 
Tell the bank where he slept, and the stream he leapt, 

where the spangled lily floats : 



290 THE FALLEN 

The tree he climbed shall lift her head, and the torrent 

he swam shall thrill, 
And the tempest that bore his shouts before shall cry 

his message still. 

G. E. Rees 

THE HOUSE OF DEATH 

Surely the Keeper of the House of Death 
Had long grown weary of letting in the old — 
Of welcoming the aged, the short of breath, 
Sad spirits, duller than their tales oft-told. 
He must have longed to gather in the gold 
Of shining youth to deck his dreary spaces — 
To hear no more old wail and sorrowing. 
And now he has his wish, and the young faces 
Are crowding in: and laughter fills Death's places; 
And all his courts are gay with flowers of Spring. 

A. T. Nankivell 

GERVAIS 

( Killed at the Dardenelles ) 

Bees hummed and rooks called hoarsely outside the 

quiet room 
Where by an open window Gervais, the restless boy, 
Fretting the while for cricket, read of Patroclos' doom 
And flower of youth a-dying by far-off windy Troy. 

Do the old tales, half -remembered, come back to haunt 
him now 

Who leaving his glad school-days and putting boy- 
hood by 



TO THE FALLEN 291 

Joined England's bitter Iliad? Greek beauty on the 

brow 
That frowns with dying wonder up to Hissarlik's sky ! 

Margaret Adelaide Wilson 

THE DEAD 

I feared the lonely dead, so old were they, 

Decrepit, tired beings, ghastly white, 

With withered breasts and eyes devoid of sight, 
Forever mute beneath the sodden clay; 
I feared the lonely dead, and turned away 

From thoughts of sombre death and endless night; 

Thus, through the dismal hours I longed for light 
To drive my utter hopelessness away. 

But now my nights are filled with flowered dreams 
Of singing warriors, beautiful and young; 

Strong men and boys within whose eyes there gleams 
The triumph-song of worlds unknown, unsung; 

Grim death has vanished, leaving in its stead 

The shining glory of the living dead. 

Sigourney Thayer 

TO THE FALLEN 

Out of the flame-scarred night one came to me 
And whispered, "He is dead." . . . But I, who find 
Thy resurrection in each noble mind, 

Thy soul in every deed of chivalry, 

I can but think, while lives nobility, 

While honour lights a path for humankind, 
While aught is beautiful, or aught enshrined, 

Death hath o'ertaken but not conquered thee. 



292 THE FALLEN 

Until all loveliness shall pass away, 

Until the darkness dies no more in dawn, 
Until the lustre of the stars is shed, 
Till no dream mocks the madness of the fray, 
Till love has learnt to leer and pride to fawn, 
Till heaven is sunk in hell — thou art not dead. 

Claude Houghton 

SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE 

They left the fury of the fight, 

And they were very tired. 
The gates of Heaven were open quite, 

Unguarded and unwired. 
There was no sound of any gun, 

The land was still and green; 
Wide hills lay silent in the sun, 

Blue valleys slept between. 

They saw far off a little wood 

Stand up against the sky. 
Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood . . . 

Some lazy cows went by . . . 
There were some rooks sailed overhead, 

And once a church-bell pealed. 
"God/ but it's England," someone said, 

"And there's a cricket-field!" 

T. P. Cameron Wilson 

THE DEAD 

The dead are with us everywhere, 

By night and day; 
No street we tread but they have wandered there 



THE DEAD 293 



Who now lie still beneath the grass 
Of some shell-scarred and distant plain, 
Beyond the fear of death, beyond all pain. 
And in the silence you can hear their noiseless foot- 
steps pass — 
The dead are with us always, night and day. 

Where once the sound of mirth would rouse 
The sleeping town, 

The laughter has died out from house to house; 

And where through open windows late 

At night would float delightful song, 

And glad-souled music from the light-heart revel- 
throng, 

In quadrangle and street the windows darkly wait 

For those who cannot wake the sleeping town. 

This city once a bride to all 

Who entered here, 
A lover magical who had in thrall 
The souls of those who once might know 
Her kiss upon their lips and brow — 
A golden, laughter-hearted lover then, but now 
A mother gray, who sees Death darken as they go, 
Son after son of those who entered there. 

Yet sometimes at the dead of night 

I see them come — 
The darkness is suffused with a great light 
From that radiant, countless host: 
No face but is triumphant there, 
A flaming crown of youth imperishable they wear. 



294 THE FALLEN 

A thousand years that passed have gained what we 

to-day have lost, 
The splendour of their sacrifice for years to come. 

A. E. Murray 

TO A CANADIAN LAD, KILLED IN THE 
WAR 

noble youth that held our honour in keeping, 
And bore it sacred through the battle flame, 
How shall we give full measure of acclaim 

To thy sharp labour, thy immortal reaping? 

For though we sowed with doubtful hands, half sleep- 
ing, 
Thou in thy vivid pride hast reaped a nation, 
And brought it in with shouts and exultation, 

With drums and trumpets, with flags flashing and 
leaping. 

Let us bring pungent wreaths of balsam, and tender 

Tendrils of wild-flowers, lovelier for thy daring, 

And deck a sylvan shrine, where the maple parts 

The moonlight, with lilac bloom, and the splendour 

Of suns unwearied; all unwithered wearing 

Thy valour stainless in our heart of hearts. 

Duncan Campbell Scott 

TO SOME WHO HAVE FALLEN 

Spring is God's season; may you see His Spring 
Somewhere, the larch and ash buds burgeoning, 
Round catkin tassels and the blossomed spine 
Of blackthorn, and the golden celandine, 



THE SILENT TOAST 295 

And little rainwashed violet leaves unfurled 
To deck young April in another world. 

We cannot know how much a dead man hears, 
What awful music of the distant spheres, 
But you may linger still, you may not be 
Too far from us to share the ecstasy 
Of all the larks that nest upon our hills, 
Or miss the flowering of the daffodils. 

Since if, as some folks say, ourselves do make 
Our Heaven, yours will hold, for old times' sake, 
The farms and orchards that you left behind, 
Steep lichened roofs, and rutted lanes that wind 
Through green lush meadows up from Wealden towns 
To the bare beauty of our Sussex Downs. 

Moray Dalton 

THE SILENT TOAST 1 

They stand with reverent faces, 

And their merriment give o'er, 
As they drink the toast to the unseen host 

Who have fought and gone before. 

It is only a passing moment 

In the midst of the feast and song, 

But it grips the breath, as the wing of death 
In a vision sweeps along. 

No more they see the banquet 
And the brilliant lights around; 

1 At our banquets at the front the toast to the Dead was 
drunk in silence. It was naturally a very impressive moment. 



THE FALLEN 



But they charge again on the hideous plain 
When the shell-bursts rip the ground. 

Or they creep at night, like panthers, 
Through the waste of No Man's Land, 

Their hearts afire with a wild desire, 
And death on every hand. 

And out of the roar and tumult, 
Or the black night loud with rain, 

Some face comes back on the fiery track 
And looks in their eyes again. 

And the love that is passing woman's, 
And the bonds that are forged by death, 

Now grip the soul with a strange control 
And speak what no man saith. 

The vision dies off in the stillness, 

Once more the tables shine, 
But the eyes of all in the banquet hall 
Are lit with a light divine. 

Frederick George Scott 
Vimy Ridge, April, 1917 

FALLEN 

We talked together in the days gone by 
Of life and of adventure still to come, 
We saw a crowded future, you and I, 
And at its close two travellers come home, 
Full of experience, wise, content to rest, 
Having faced life and put it to the test. 



SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 297 

Already we had seen blue skies grow bleak, 

And learned the fickleness of fate, firsthand; 

We knew each goal meant some new goal to seek, 

Accepting facts we could n't understand; 

You seemed equipped for life's most venturous way — 

Death closed the gallant morning of your day. 

Oh, many a one still watching others go 
Might fall, and leave no such heart-sickening gap. 
What waste, what pity 't seems to squander so 
Courage that dared whatever ill might hap, 
While laggards, fearful both of worst and best, 
Hoard up the life you hazarded with zest! 

It seems like waste to others, but to you 

And the thronged heroes who have paid the price, 

Yourselves, your hopes, and all you dreamed and knew, 

Were counted as a puny sacrifice — 

You knew, with keener judgment, all was gained, 

If honour at the last shone still unstained! 

W. Kersley Holmes 

"SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE" 

"Somewhere in France" — we know not where 

— he lies, 
Mid shuddering earth and under anguished skies! 
We may not visit him, but this we say: 
Though our steps err, his shall not miss their way. 
From the exhaustion of War's fierce embrace 
He, nothing doubting, went to his own place. 
To him has come, if not the crown and palm, 
The kiss of Peace — a vast, sufficing calm! 



THE FALLEN 



So fine a spirit, daring, yet serene, — 

He may not, surely, lapse from what has been : 

Greater, not less, his wondering mind must be; 

Ampler the splendid vision he must see. 

'T is unbelievable he fades away, — 

An exhalation at the dawn of day! 

Nor dare we deem that he has but returned 

Into the Oversoul, to be discerned 

Hereafter in the bosom of the rose, 

In petal of the lily, or in those 

Far jewelled sunset skies that glow and pale, 

Or in the rich note of the nightingale. 

Nay, though all beauty may recall to mind 

What we in his fair life were wont to find, 

He shall escape absorption, and shall still 

Preserve a faculty to know and will. 

Such is my hope, slow climbing to a faith : 

(We know not Life, how should we then know Death?) 

From our small limits and withholdings free, 

Somewhere he dwells and keeps high company; 

Yet tainted not with so supreme a bliss 

As to forget he knew a world like this. 

John Hogben 

TO TONY (AGED 3) 

(In memory T. P. C. W.) 

Gemmed with white daisies was the great green 
world 
Your restless feet have pressed this long day through — 

Come now and let me whisper to your dreams 
A little song grown from my love for you. 



TO MY GODSON 299 

There was a man once loved green fields like you, 
He drew his knowledge from the wild birds' songs; 

And he had praise for every beauteous thing, 
And he had pity for all piteous wrongs. . . . 

A lover of earth's forests — of her hills, 
And brother to her sunlight — to her rain — 

Man, with a boy's fresh wonder. He was great 
With greatness all too simple to explain. 

He was a dreamer and a poet, and brave 
To face and hold what he alone found true. 

He was a comrade of the old — a friend 
To every little laughing child like you. 

......... 

And when across the peaceful English land, 
Unhurt by war, the light is growing dim, 

And you remember by your shadowed bed 
All those — the brave — you must remember him, 

And know it was for you who bear his name 
And such as you that all his joy he gave — 

His love of quiet fields, his youth, his life, 
To win that heritage of peace you have. 

Marjorie Wilson 



TO MY GODSON 

They shall come back through Heaven's bars 
When June has filled the world with joy, 
And you are seeking playmates, boy, 
To share your Kingdom of the stars; 



300 THE FALLEN 

Or part with you the bracken fronds 
Where golden armoured knights may ride, 
Or learn where baby rabbits hide, 
Or dabble in the silver ponds. 

O all the pipes of fairyland 
Shall give you royal welcoming 
And all the fairy bells shall ring 
And you will wander hand in hand. 
But through the music gay and sweet 
That fairies teach their chosen ones 
Shall sound an echo of the guns 
And high ambition's drum will beat. 

For they who died lest all that's good 
And beautiful and brave and free 
Should sink in Hell's obscurity, 
These claim you in a Brotherhood. 
The lot is fallen, O child, to you 
To finish all they had to leave, 
And by their sacrifice achieve 
The manifold desires they knew. 

And you shall feel their ardour burn 
Like flaming fires within your heart, 
In all your life they '11 have a part 
And all their secrets you shall learn. 
They would have guided your young feet, 
Kind, but so far from boyhood's day, 
But death has found a surer way 
Of making comradeship complete. 

O all the pipes of fairyland 

Shall play for you, shall play for them, 



NEW HEAVEN 301 

Their flame of radiant life will stem, 
Evil you scarce could understand. 
They '11 bid you raise your wondering eyes, 
Till, far above you, you shall see 
The Beauty that they knew might be, 
Calling you from the starlit skies. 

Mildred Huxley 

NEW HEAVEN 

Paradise now has many a Knight, 

Many a lordkin, many lords, 
Glimmer of armour, dinted and bright, 

The young Knights have put on new swords. 

Some have barely the down on the lip, 
Smiling yet from the new- won spurs, 

Their wounds are rubies, glowing and deep, 
Their scars amethyst — glorious scars. 

Michael's army hath many new men, 
Gravest Knights that may sit in stall, 

Kings and Captains, a shining train, 

But the little young Knights are dearest of all. 

Paradise now is the soldiers' land, 

Their own country its shining sod, 
Comrades all in a merry band; 

And the young Knights' laughter pleaseth God. 

Katharine Tynan 



S02 THE FALLEN 

REVEILLE 

In the place to which I go, 
Better men than I have died. 

Freeman friend and conscript foe, 
Face to face and side by side, 
In the shallow grave abide. 

Melinite that seared their brains, 
Gas that slew them in a snare, 

War's inferno of strange pains, 
What are these to them who share 
That great boon of silence there? 

When like blood the moon is red; 
And a shadow hides the sun, 

We shall wake, the so-long dead, 
We shall know our quarrel done, — 
Will God tell us who has won? 

Ronald Lewis Carton 



WOMEN AND THE WAR 



THE CALL TO ARMS IN OUR STREET 

There 's a woman sobs her heart out, 

With her head against the door, 
For the man that's called to leave her, 
— God have pity on the poor! 
But it's beat, drums, beat, 
While the lads march down the street, 
And it's blow, trumpets, blow, 
Keep your tears until they go. 

There's a crowd of little children 

Who march along and shout, 
For it's fine to play at soldiers 
Now their fathers are called out. 
So it's beat, drums, beat; 
But who'll find them food to eat? 
And it's blow, trumpets, blow, 
Ah! the children little know. 

There's a mother who stands watching 

For the last look of her son, 
A worn poor widow woman, 
And he her only one. 

But it's beat, drums, beat, 

Though God knows when we shall meet; 

And it's blow, trumpets, blow: 

We must smile and cheer them so. 

There's a young girl who stands laughing, 
For she thinks a war is grand, 



306 WOMEN AND THE WAR 

And it's fine to see the lads pass, 
And it 's fine to hear the band. 
So it's beat, drums, beat, 
To the fall of many feet; 
And it's blow, trumpets, blow, 
God go with you where you go! 

Winifred M. Letts 

THE ENDLESS ARMY 

And the fathers of the children go out to that Endless Army, and 
come not again. 

With folded hands beside the fire 
Silent she muses. Scarlet flames 
Leap from the ashes, then like bloom 
Of briefest hour, faint and fade, 
While secret, darker, grows the room. 

Dream-shielded from the changeful world 

Upstairs the children lie asleep. 

The gliding moonlight enters in, 

Unearthly, reminiscent, still. 

And touches sleeping brow and chin — 

With magic art of light and shade 
A strangeness carves upon their youth. 
The moonbeams, lighter than a breath 
Dream-stirred, have sculptured deep and pale 
A less than life, a more than death. 

Yet not alone the moonlight there. 
For she who watched the ebbing fire 
Leans breathlessly above the bed . . . 
Her yearning eyes explore each face 
To find once more her blessed dead. 



THE MOTHER 307 



The reverent moonlight lays a veil 
On hair grown silver 'neath her ray 
And waits . . . Outside, the moaning trees 
Are hung like harps in branching night, 
Swept by the fingers of the breeze. 

The wind, the Moon, and Memory . . . 
Slow tears, and grief, and Life and Death . . 
'Mid that great company, asleep 
The children lie in marble peace, 
Unknowing who the vigil keep. 

And always down the quiet road 
A soundless tramp of ghostly feet . . . 
Remembered, half-dreamt battle cry . . . 
While past the house, beneath the trees 
Dim regiments of shades march by. 

G. 0. Warren 

THE MOTHER 

Her boys are not shut out. They come 
Homing like pigeons to her door, 

Sure of her tender welcome home, 
As many a time before. 

Their bed is made so smooth and sweet, 
The fire is lit, the table spread; 

She has poured water for their feet, 
That they be comforted. 

As with a fluttering of wings 

They are come home, come home to stay; 
With all the bitter dreadful things 

Forgot, clean washed away. 



308 WOMEN AND THE WAR 

They are so glad to stay, so glad 
They nestle to her gown's soft flow, 

As in the loving times they had, 
Long ago, long ago. 

Oh, not like lonely ghosts in mist 

Her boys come from the night and rain, 

But to be clasped, but to be kissed, 
And not go out again. 

Katharine Tynan 

THE DEVONSHIRE MOTHER 

The King have called the Devon lads and they be 
answering fine — 

But shadows seem to bide this way, for all the sun do 
shine, 

For there's Squire's son have gone for one, and Par- 
son's son — and mine. 

I mind the day mine went from me — the skies was 
all aglow — 

The cows deep in our little lane was comin* home so 
slow — 

"And don't ee never grieve yourself," he said, "be- 
cause I go." 

His arms were strong around me, then. He turned and 

went away — 
I heard the little childer dear a-singin' at their play, 
The meanin' of an aching heart is hid from such as 

they. 



THE DEVONSHIRE MOTHER 309 

And scarce a day goes by but now I set my door ajar, 
And watch the road that Jan went up the time he went 

to war, 
That when he'll come again to me I'll see him from 

afar. 

And in my chimney seat o' nights, when quiet grows 

the farm, 
I pray the Lord he be not cold whiles I have fire to 

warm — 
And give the mothers humble hearts whose boys are 

kept from harm. 

And then I take the Book and read before I seek my 

rest, 
Of how that other Son went forth (them parts I like 

the best), 
And left His mother lone for Him she'd cuddled to her 

breast. 

I like to think when nights were dark and Him at 

prayer maybe, 
Upon the gurt dark mountain side, or in His boat at sea, 
He worried just a bit for her, who 'd learnt Him at her 

knee. 

And maybe when He minds her ways, He will not let 

Jan fall — 
I'm thinkin' He will know my boy, with his dear ways 

an' all — 
With his tanned face, his eyes of blue, and he so 

strappin' tall. 

Marjorie Wilson 



310 WOMEN AND THE WAR 

THE HEART-CRY 

She turned the page of wounds and death 
With trembling fingers. In a breath 
The gladness of her life became 
Naught but a memory and a name. 

Farewell ! Farewell ! I might not share 
The perils it was yours to dare. 
Dauntless you fronted death: for me 
Rests to face life as fearlessly. 

F. W. Bourdillon 

HOMES 

The lamplight's shaded rose 

On couch and chair and wall, 

The drowsy book let fall, 

The children's heads, bent close 

In some deep argument, 

The kitten, sleepy-curled, 

Sure of our good intent, 

The hearth-fire's crackling glow: 

His step that crisps the snow, 

His laughing kiss, wind-cold. . . . 

Only the very old 

Gifts that the night-star brings, 

Dear homely evening-things, 

Dear things of all the world, 

And yet my throat locks tight. . . . 

Somewhere far off I know 
Are ashes on red snow 
That were a home last night. 

Margaret Widdemer 



MOTHER AND MATE 311 

SONG 

She goes all so softly, 

Like a shadow on the hill, 
A faint wind at twilight 

That stirs, and is still. 

She weaves her thoughts whitely, 

Like doves in the air, 
Though a gray mound in Flanders 

Clouds all that was fair. 

Edward J. O'Brien 

SEED-TIME 

Woman of the field, — by the sunset furrow, 
Lone-faring woman, woman at the plough, 

What of the harrow? — there so near their foreheads. 
Can there be harvest, now? 

" My one Beloved sowed here his body; 

Under the furrows that open so red. 
All that come home now, have we for our children. — 

They will be wanting bread." 

Josephine Preston Peabody 

MOTHER AND MATE 

Lightly she slept, that splendid mother mine 
Who faced death, undismayed, two hopeless years . . . 
("Think of me sometimes, son, but not with tears 
Lest my soul grieve," she writes. Oh, this divine 
Unselfishness!) . . . 



312 WOMEN AND THE WAR 

Her favourite print smiled down — 
The stippled Cupid, Bartolozzi-brown — 
Upon my sorrow. Fire-gleams, fitful, played 
Among her playthings — Toby mugs and jade. . . . 

And then I dreamed that — suddenly, strangely 

clear — 
A voice I knew not, faltered at my ear: 
"Courage!" . . . Your own dear voice, loved since, 

and known! 

And now that she sleeps well, come times her voice 
Whispers in day-dreams: "Courage, son! Rejoice 
That, leaving you, I left you not alone." 

Gilbert Frankau 

PIERROT GOES TO WAR 

In the sheltered garden, pale beneath the moon, 
(Drenched with swaying fragrance, redolent with June !) 
There, among the shadows, some one lingers yet — 
Pierrot, the lover, parts from Pierrette. 

Bugles, bugles, bugles, blaring down the wind, 
Sound the flaming challenge — Leave your dreams 

behind ! 
Come away from shadows, turn your back on June — 
Pierrot, go forward to face the golden noon ! 

In the muddy trenches, black and torn and still, 
(How the charge swept over, to break against the hill!) 
Huddled in the shadows, boyish figures lie — 
They whom Death, saluting, called upon to die. 



GREY KNITTING 313 

Bugles, ghostly bugles, whispering down the wind — 
Dreams too soon are over, gardens left behind. 
Only shadows linger, for love does not forget — 
Pierrot goes forward — but what of Pierrette ? 

Gabrielle Elliot 
October, 1917 

GREY KNITTING 

Something sings gently through the din of battle, 
Something spreads very softly rim on rim, 
And every soldier hears, at times, a murmur 
Tender, incessant, — dim. 

A tiny click of little wooden needles, 
Elfin amid the gianthood of war; 
Whispers of women, tireless and patient, 
Who weave the web afar. 

Whispers of women, tireless and patient, 
"This is our heart's love," it would seem to say, 
"Wrought with the ancient tools of our vocation, 
Weave we the web of love from day to day." 

And so each soldier, laughing, fighting, — dying 
Under the alien skies, in his great hour, 
May listen, in death's prescience all-enfolding, 
And hear a fairy sound bloom like a flower — 

I like to think that soldiers, gaily dying 

For the white Christ on fields with shame sown deep, 

May hear the tender song of women's needles, 

As they fall fast asleep. 

Katherine Hale 



314 WOMEN AND THE WAR 

AT PARTING 

It was sad weather when you went away, 
Wind, and the rain was raining every day. 
And all night long I heard in lonesome sleep 
The water running under the bows of the ship, 
All the dark night and till the dawning grey. 

At Salonika it is golden weather. 

Go light of heart, O child, light as a feather, 

Valiant and full of laughter, free as air. 

God is at Salonika — here and there 
God and my heart are keeping watch together. 

But O when you come back, though skies should weep, 
The water running under the bows of the ship 
Shall in my dreams make music exquisite 
And all my happy sleep be drenched with it, 
And you coming home, home through the hours of 
sleep. 

Katharine Tynan 

* MISSING 

Lord, how can he be dead? 

For he stood there just this morn 
With the live blood in his cheek 
And the live light on his head? 

Dost Thou remember, Lord, when he was born, 
And all my heart went forth thy praise to seek, 

(I, a creator even as Thou,) — 
To force Thee to confess 
The little, young, heart-breaking loveliness, 

Like willow-buds in Spring, upon his brow? 



MISSING 315 



Newest of unfledged things, 
All perfect but the wings. 
Master, I lit my tender candle-light 

Straight at the living fire that rays abroad 
From thy dread altar, God! 
How should it end in night? 

Lord, in my time of trouble, of tearing strife, 

Even then I loved thy will, even then I knew 
That nothing is so beautiful as life! . . . 

Is not the world's great woe thine anguish too? 

It hath not passed, thine hour, 
Again Thou kneelest in the olive-wood. 

The lands are drunk with sharp-set lust of 
power, 
The kings are thirsting, and they pour thy blood. 
But we, the mothers, we that found thy trace 
Down terrible ways, that looked upon thy face 
And are not dead — how should we doubt thy grace? 

How many women in how many lands — 
Almost I weep for them as for mine own — 
That wait beside the desolate hearthstone! 

Always before the embattled army stands 
The horde of women like a phantom wall, 

Barring the way with desperate, futile hands. 
The first charge tramples them, the first of all! 

Dost Thou remember, Lord, the hearts that prayed 
As down the shouting village street they swung, 
The beautiful fighting-men? The sunlight flung 

His keen young face up like an unfleshed blade . . . 
O God, so young ! 



316 WOMEN AND THE WAR 

Lord, hast Thou gone away? 

Once more through all the worlds thy 
touch I seek. 
Lord, how can he be dead? 
For he stood here just this day 
With the live blood in his cheek, 
And the live light on his head? 
Lord, how can he be dead? 

Beatrice W. Ravenel 



PEACE 



CLEAN HANDS 

Make this thing plain to us, Lord! 
That not the triumph of the sword — 

Not that alone — can end the strife, 

But reformation of the life — 
But full submission to Thy Word! 

Not all the stream of blood outpoured 
Can Peace — the Long-Desired — afford; 
Not tears of Mother, Maid or Wife . . . 
Make this thing plain ! 

4P 

We must root out our sins ignored, 
By whatsoever name adored; 
Our secret sins, that, ever rife, 
Shrink from the operating knife; 
Then shall we rise, renewed, restored . . . 
Make this thing plain! 

Austin Dobson 

PEACE 

(November 11, 1918) 

Peace, battle- worn and starved, and gaunt and pale 

Rises like mist upon a storm-swept shore. 

Rises from out the blood-stained fields and bows her 

head, 
Blessing the passionate dead 
Who gladly died that she might live for evermore. 

Unheeding generations come and go, 
And careless men and women will forget, 



320 PEACE 

Caught in the whirling loom whose tapestried To-day 

Flings Yesterday away, 

And covers up the crimsoned West whose sun has set, 

But faithful ghosts, like shepherds, will return 
To call the flocking shades and break with them 
Love-bread, and Peace will strain them to her breast, 

and weep, 
And deathless vigil keep. 
Yea, Peace, while worlds endure, will sing their 

requiem. 

G. 0. Warren 

AFTER THE WAR 

After the war — I hear men ask — what then? 

As though this rock-ribbed world, sculptured with fire, 

And bastioned deep in the ethereal plan, 

Can never be its morning self again 

Because of this brief madness, man with man; 

As though the laughing elements should tire, 

The very seasons in their order reel; 

As though indeed yon ghostly golden wheel 

Of stars should cease from turning, or the moon 

Befriend the night no more, or the wild rose 

Forget the world, and June be no more June. 

How many wars and long-forgotten woes 
Unnumbered, nameless, made a like despair 
In hearts long stilled; how many suns have set 
On burning cities blackening the air, — 
Yet dawn came dreaming back, her lashes wet 
With dew, and daisies in her innocent hair. 



WHEN IT IS FINISHED 321 

Nor shall, for this, the soul's ascension pause, 
Nor the sure evolution of the laws 
That out of foulness lift the flower to sun, 
And out of fury forge the evening star. 

Deem not Love's building of the world undone — 
Far Love's beginning was, her end is far; 
By paths of fire and blood her feet must climb, 
Seeking a loveliness she scarcely knows, 
Whose meaning is beyond the reach of Time. 

Richard Le Gallienne 

WHEN IT IS FINISHED 

When it is finished, Father, and we set 

The war-stained buckler and the bright blade by, 

Bid us remember then what bloody sweat, 

What thorns, what agony, 

Purchased our wreaths of harvest and ripe ears; 

Whose empty hands, whose empty hearts, whose tears 

In this Gethsemane 

Ransomed the days to be. 

We leave them to Thee, Saviour. We've no price, 

No utmost treasure of the seas or lands, 

No words, no deeds, to pay their sacrifice. 

Only while England stands, 

Their pearl, their pride, their altar, — not their 

grave, — 
Bid us remember in what hours they gave 
All that mankind may give 
That we might live. 

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall 



PEACE 



REVEILLE 

Ended the watches of the dark; oh hear the bugles 

blow — 
The bugles blow Reveille at the golden gates of morn; 
A shudder moves the living East; the stars are burning 

low 
Above the crystal cradle of a day that 's newly born. 
Arise ye slumbering legions; wake for honour and for 

right; 
Awake, arise, ye myriad men, to faith and justice 

sworn; 
High heaven's fires are flashing on the valley and the 

height, 
And the bugles blow Reveille at the golden gates of 

morn. 
Within the holy of your hearts, oh hear the bugles 

blow — 
The bugles blow Reveille at the golden gates of morn, 
And welcome with their clarion ineffable foreglow 
Of a sunrise where the souls of men are being newly 

born. 
Awake, arise, ye legions, to the challenge of the dead; 
Arise, awake and follow in the footsteps they have 

worn; 
For their spirits are the glory of the dayspring over- 
head, 
And their bugles blow Reveille at the golden gates of 

morn. 

Eden Phillpotts 

[From Plain Song, 19H-1916. Reprinted by permission of William 
Heinemann, London; and The Macmillan Company, New York.] 



OCCASIONAL NOTES 



OCCASIONAL NOTES 

Asquith, Herbert. See Occasional Notes, First Series. 

Bashford, H. H. Dr. Bashford is attached to the Head- 
quarters Staff of the British Postal Service. He has collabo- 
rated with Archibald Hurd in writing a naval history of the 
war, entitled Sons of Admiralty. 

Bell, Maud Anna. Miss Bell has actively promoted the 
Serbian Relief Fund and other war philanthropies. 

Belloc, Hilaire. He was educated at the Oratory School, 
Edgbaston, and at Balliol College, Oxford. He served in his 
youth as a driver in the 8th Regiment of French Artillery. 
He has written General Sketch of the European War, etc. 

Bene^t, William Rose. He has been assistant editor of 
The Century Magazine since 1914. In that year he published 
The Falconer of God, and in 1916 The Great White Wall, both 
of these being collections of his poems. He became a Second 
Lieutenant in the Air Service, U.S.A., in February, 1918, and 
served in the Radio Branch of the Training Section of the 
Division of Military Aeronautics. 

Bewsher, Paul. See First Series. 

Bin yon, Laurence. He worked in an Anglo-French Hospi- 
tal for a time, and was a home volunteer in the anti-aircraft 
service. His war writings include For Dauntless France (a 
book on British Red Cross work among the French), The Win- 
nowing Fan, The Anvil (published in America under the title 
The Cause), and The New World. 

Bourdillon, Francis William. He was educated at 
Worcester College, Oxford, and has published several vol- 
umes of his poems. 

Bradford, Gamaliel. He is the author of Lee, the Ameri- 
can; Confederate Portraits; Union Portraits; etc. 

Bridges, Robert. See First Series. 

Brooke, Rupert. See First Series. 

Burnet, Dana. He was in France for several months dur- 
ing the winter of 1917-18, as special writer for The New 
York Evening Sun. 

Burr, Amelia Josephine. She is a member of the Vigi- 



OCCASIONAL NOTES 



lantes, and has served as an instructor in Red Cross Surgical 
Dressings, and as a volunteer hostess at the Y.W.C.A. 
Hostess House, Camp Merritt. Her war poems are included 
in her two volumes entitled Life and Living and The Silver 
Trumpet. 

Campbell, Wilfred. See First Series. 

Carman, Bliss. This well-known Canadian poet was born 
at Fredericton, N.B., April 15, 1861. He was educated at the 
Universities of New Brunswick and Edinburgh, and at Har- 
vard. 

Carton, Ronald Lewis. He is a Lieutenant in the Duke 
of Cornwall's Light Infantry, and has served in the Balkans. 
He is the author of a group of poems entitled Steel and Flowers, 
1917. He has contributed frequently to The Times (London) 
and other newspapers. 

Channing, Grace Ellery. Mrs. Channing-Stetson went 
to France and Italy in 1916, at the instance of several Ameri- 
can periodicals, and visited the Italian Front, entering Gorizia 
shortly after the Italian occupation. She spent some time 
also in the devastated districts of France. Her pen has been 
steadily active in the cause of the Allies. 

Chapman, John Jay. He was born in New York in 1862 
and was educated at Harvard. He is the author of many es- 
says and poems, and several plays. He published in 1917 The 
Letters of Victor Chapman, with Memoirs. 

Chesterton, Gilbert Keith. See First Series. 

Coates, Florence Earle. Her war poems appear in 
Poems and Pro Patria. She is an honorary member of the 
Society of Arts and Letters. 

Cone, Helen Gray. See First Series. 

Conkling, Grace Hazard. She has been teacher of Eng- 
lish in Smith College since 1914. Some of her war poems are 
included in her volume, Afternoons of April. She is a mem- 
ber of the Poetry Society of America. 

Corbett, W. M. F. He entered the^British Navy in 1904, 
and became a Lieutenant in 1909. He was a Turret-Officer 
on H.M.S. Indomitable during the action of November 3, 
1914, off the Dardanelles; and served also in the Dogger 
Bank action, January 24, 1915; and at Jutland, May 31, 
1916. He was awarded the Croix de Guerre in 1917, and 
was made a Lieutenant-Commander the same year. 



OCCASIONAL NOTES 327 

Courtney, W. L. He is the Editor of The Fortnightly Re- 
view. 

Crewe, Lord. The Marquess of Crewe was educated at 
Harrow and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He has pub- 
lished poems and political and literary articles. He has 
served as Secretary of State for the Colonies and Secretary 
of State for India. 

Dargan, Olive Tilford. This American writer has pub- 
lished several plays and collections of her poems. 

Day, Miles Jeffrey Game. He was born at St. Ives, 
Hunts, and was educated at Repton. At the age of eighteen 
he entered the Naval Air Service, and was at first allotted to 
technical work only, but by his importunity he secured his 
transfer to a fighting squadron in France. He was killed in 
action, as a Flight Commander, on February 27, 1918, in his 
twenty-second year, during a fight with six German aircraft 
which he had attacked single-handed, while out to sea. 

Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan. He founded the Volunteer 
Force in England, and was the first to join it, August 4, 1914, 
as a private in the Fifth Sussex Battalion. He has done much 
literary work during the war, producing especially A History 
of the Great War. 

Draper, William Henry. He is the Rector of Adel, 
Leeds, England, and is Lecturer in English Literature in Leeds 
University, and for University Extension Boards at Oxford 
and Cambridge. His volume, Poems of the Love of England, 
contains poems of peace and war. He has lost three sons in 
the war. 

Drinkwater, John. Mr. Drink water was born June 1, 
1882, and was educated at Oxford High School. He has pub- 
lished several plays and critical essays and is interested 
managerially in the Birmingham Repertory Theatre. 

Dunsany, Lord. He was born July 24, 1878, and was edu- 
cated at Eton. He served as a Lieutenant in the 1st Battal- 
ion Coldstream Guards, and afterward as a Captain in the 
1st Battalion, Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. He was wounded 
on April 25, 1916. He has published several volumes of tales 
and plays. 

Elliot, Gabrielle. She has written much for war organi- 
zations, such as the American Fund for French Wounded, the 
Nursing Committee of the Council of National Defence, etc. 



328 OCCASIONAL NOTES 

Finley, John. He is President of the University of the 
State of New York and State Commissioner of Education. His 
varied war activities have included service on the National 
War Work Committee, Salvation Army; the Commission on 
Training Camp Activities; the Library War Council; the 
American Commission for the Work of French Restoration; 
the Y.M.C.A. National War Work Council; and the Ameri- 
can University Union in Europe. He was Chairman of the 
Committee on War Savings of the Department of Superin- 
tendence, and of the Committee on Red Cross and Allied 
Subjects, N.E.A.; of the Army Educational Commission in 
France; and of the Red Cross Commission to Palestine. 

Firkins, O. W. He is Associate Professor of English in the 
University of Minnesota. 

Frankatj, Gilbert. Upon the declaration of war he joined 
the Ninth East Surrey Regiment (Infantry), with the rank of 
Lieutenant. He was transferred to the Royal Field Artillery 
in March, 1915, and was appointed Adjutant during the fol- 
lowing July. He proceeded to France in that capacity, fought 
in the battle of Loos, served at Ypres during the winter of 
1915-16, and thereafter took part in the battle of the Somme. 
In October, 1916, he was recalled to England, was promoted 
to the rank of Staff Captain in the Intelligence Corps, and 
was sent to Italy to engage in special duties. He was finally 
invalided out of the service in February, 1918. He is the 
author of several books, the most recent being The Judg- 
ment of Valhalla, One of Them, and The Other Side. 

Freeman, John. He has published some of his war poems 
under the title Presage of Victory, and Other Poems of the Time. 

Galbraith, W. Campbell. Lieutenant-Colonel Galbraith 
served for three years with the Argyll and Bute Garrison 
Artillery; for six years with the Fourteenth Battalion, County 
of London Regiment; for seven years with the Second London 
Divisional T. & S. Column; and for four years with the Forty- 
seventh Divisional A.S.C. He was mentioned four times in 
dispatches during the Great War. From February to Novem- 
ber, 1918, he was attached to the Admiralty as Chief Housing 
and Labour Officer for the N.E. Coast of England. 

Galsworthy, John. See First Series. 

Garrison, Theodosia. She has done much Red Cross 
work, and has freely helped with her pen several organiza- 



OCCASIONAL NOTES 329 

tions for the development of activities connected with the 
war. She is a member of The Authors' League and of The 
Poetry Society of America. 

Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson. This well-known writer has 
served as a Private in the British Army. 

Gorell, Lord. Lord Gorell was educated at Jesus Col- 
lege, Cambridge. He was Chairman, 1914-17, of the Grey- 
holme Convalescent Home for Wounded and Refugees. 

Graves, Robert. He is a Captain in the Royal Welsh 
Fusiliers. He served in France for eighteen months, taking 
part in the battles of Loos and the Somme. 

Hale, Katherine. The pen name of Mrs. John W. Gar- 
vin, a well-known Canadian journalist and author. 

Hall, James Norman. See First Series. 

Hardy, Thomas. See First Series. 

Harper, Isabel Westcott. She is the daughter of Pro- 
fessor George McLean Harper, of Princeton University. 

Head, Henry. He has been employed in three hospitals, 
having charge of patients suffering from wounds of the nerv- 
ous system, etc. 

Hewlett, Maurice Henry. See First Series. 

Hodgson, William Noel. See First Series. 

Holmes, W. Kersley. He was a Lance-Corporal in the 
Lothians and Border Horse when the war broke out, and was 
called up with his regiment, which was assigned to the defence 
of the east coast of Scotland. He applied for a commission 
in the Royal Field Artillery, and went to France in October, 
1915. He was slightly wounded on three different occasions: 
while on the Somme, in 1916; during the taking of Messines 
Ridge, in 1917; and near Kemmel, in 1918. Horse-Bathing 
Parade describes a scene on the sands near Dunbar during the 
summer of 1915. 

Houghton, Claude. His collected war poems are entitled 
The Phantom Host, and Other Verses, 1917. He has been en- 
gaged at the British Admiralty. 

Johnson, Robert Underwood. His war work has in- 
cluded the active chairmanship of the American Poets' 
Ambulances in Italy, and the presidency of the Italian War 
Relief Fund of America. He has published Poems of War 
and Peace. 

Kendall, Guy. He is the Headmaster of University Col- 



330 OCCASIONAL NOTES 

lege School, Hampstead, London, and has published The Call, 
and Other Poems. 

Kilmer, Joyce. He was born in New Brunswick, N.J., 
December 6, 1886. He had first joined the Officers' Reserve 
Corps, but soon resigned. Within seventeen days after the 
entrance of the United States into the war he left his journal- 
istic career to enlist as a Private in the Seventh Regiment, 
National Guard, New York. Shortly before the Seventh left 
New York for Spartanburg, S.C., he was transferred at his 
own request to the 165th U.S. Infantry, formerly the 69th 
National Guard Regiment of New York. He accompanied 
the regiment as a Private to Camp Mills, Long Island. He 
was transferred from Company H to Headquarters Com- 
pany, and became Senior Regimental Statistician. The regi- 
ment sailed for France in October, 1917, and there he was 
placed in the Adjutant's Office and made Sergeant. There- 
after he was attached to the Regimental Intelligence Staff 
as an observer, and showed great fidelity and courage in the 
tasks to which he was assigned. He was killed in action on 
July 30, 1918, while trying to locate hostile machine-guns in 
the Wood of the Burned Bridge, on the Ourcq. His war 
writings may be found in Main Street, and other Poems, and 
Joyce Kilmer, Poems, Essays and Letters. 

Knight-Adkin, James H. He was educated at Cheltenham 
College (Scholar) and at Keble College (Exhibitioner), 
Oxford, whence he was graduated with honours in History. 
When the war broke out he was a master at the United Serv- 
ices College, Windsor, a Lieutenant in the Officers' Training 
Corps, and active head of the College Corps. On the first 
day of the war he joined the Fourth Battalion of the Royal 
Gloucester Regiment (City of Bristol), as Lieutenant. In 
March, 1915, he went to the front, and was wounded at 
Ploegsteert in June of the same year. On recovery, being 
pronounced unfit for further service in the trenches, he was 
employed behind the line until the end of the war. He became 
a Captain in August, 1916. 

Ledwidge,|Francis. He was born of peasant parents in 
County Meath, Ireland, and worked variously as a farm 
hand, scavenger and labourer in a copper mine. He served 
as a Lance-Corporal on the Flanders Front, and was killed 
July 31, 1917, at the age of 26 years. Lord Dunsany has 



OCCASIONAL NOTES 331 

edited two volumes of Ledwidge's poems — Songs of the 
Fields and Songs of Peace. See Mr. O'Conor's memorial 
poem, "For Francis Ledwidge." 

Lee, Joseph. At the outbreak of the war, he enlisted as a 
private in the lst/4th Battalion of the Black Watch, Royal 
Highlanders, and served on all parts of the British front in 
France and Flanders. He received a commission in Septem- 
ber, 1917, and was posted as Second Lieutenant to the Tenth 
Battalion, King's Royal Rifle Corps. He led his company in 
the advance on Cambrai in November, 1917, but was cap- 
tured by the Germans. He has published Ballads of Battle. 

Le Gallienne, Richard. He was born at Liverpool, Janu- 
ary 20, 1866, and resides at Rowayton, Connecticut. He has 
published many poems and essays. 

Letts, Winifred M. She has published Halloween, and 
Poems of the War. She served in 1915 as a V.A.D. nurse 
in Manchester Base Hospital, and later joined the Almeric 
Paget Military Massage Corps, working at Command Depot 
Camps at Manchester and Alnwick. She served also at an 
Orthopaedic Hospital in Blackrock, Dublin. 

Lowell, Amy. Miss Lowell provided libraries of modern 
poetry for all the training camps in the United States, and 
for several hospitals. Her war poems appear in Men, Women 
and Ghosts, etc. 

MacGill, Patrick. He was born in Donegal in 1890. He 
joined the British Army on the outbreak of the war and was 
wounded at Loos in 1915. He has published The Great Push, 
Soldier Songs, etc. 

Mackay, Isabel Ecclestone. She is Vice-President for 
British Columbia of the Canadian Women's Press Club, 
which has engaged in many practical war activities. 

MacKaye, Percy. His war writings include The Evergreen 
Tree, The Roll Call, and Washington, the Man Who Made 
Us. 

Manning, Frederic. He enlisted in the King's (Shrop- 
shire) Light Infantry in October, 1915, and served in France 
with the Seventh Battalion through the Battle of the Somme, 
1916. He was an officer in the Royal Irish Regiment, be- 
tween May, 1917, and February, 1918, when he resigned his 
commission. He is the author of Eidola. 

Masefield, John. See First Series. 



332 OCCASIONAL NOTES 

Mastin, Florence Ripley. She is a teacher of English 
Literature in Erasmus Hall High School, Brooklyn, N.Y. 

McCbae, John. He was born in Guelph, Ontario, Can- 
ada, November 30, 1872, and was educated at the Guelph 
Collegiate Institute and the University of Toronto, being 
graduated in arts in 1894 and in medicine four years later. 
He did advanced work at Johns Hopkins, and returned to 
Canada to join the staff of the Medical School of McGill Uni- 
versity. For a time he was Professor of Pathology at the Uni- 
versity of Vermont. He served as Lieutenant of Artillery in 
the South African Field Force during 1899-1900, won the 
Queen's Medal with three clasps, and was made commanding 
officer of the Sixteenth Battery. When the Great War broke 
out in 1914 he was in London, and joined the First Brigade 
of Canadian Artillery as surgeon. He served in the Ypres 
sector for fourteen months, but after the second battle of 
Ypres was transferred to Boulogne, and placed in charge of the 
Medical Division of the McGill Canadian General Hospital. 
Here he served for over two years. Lieutenant-Colonel 
McCrae (C.A.M.C.) died suddenly of pneumonia and men- 
ingitis, January 28, 1918. Shortly before his death he was 
appointed consultant to one of the British Army Areas. A 
memorial tablet in his honour has been placed in the Royal 
Victoria Hospital, Montreal. 

Morgan, Charles Langbridge. See First Series. 

Munro, Neil. He was born in Inverary, Scotland, June 3, 
1864, and is widely known as a writer of Scottish romances. 
He was in France as a correspondent during the first few 
months of the war, and was with the British and French 
Armies in Picardy and Verdun in the winter of 1916-17, as 
representing the Scottish and English Press for the Foreign 
Office. 

Murray, A. E. She has served as a nurse in a military 
hospital, and has driven cars and motorcycles for the R.F.C. 
and the Red Cross, the latter in France. 

Newbolt, Sir Henry. See First Series. 

Nichols, Robert. He was born at Shanklin, Isle of Wight, 
in 1893. When the war broke out he was an undergraduate at 
Trinity College, Oxford, but he entered the Army immedi- 
ately, and was commissioned as Second Lieutenant, R.F.A., 
Oct. 13, 1914. After a year of service (including several 



OCCASIONAL NOTES 333 

weeks at the Front), he was disabled by wounds and shell 
shock. He spent five months in a hospital and was invalided 
out of service in 1916. Thereafter he was employed by the 
British Ministry of Labour. He went back to France, for a 
time, as a correspondent, and visited the United States in 
1918-19 as a lecturer. He has published several groups of his 
war poems under the title, Ardours and Endurances. 

Notes, Alfred. See First Series. 

O'Brien, Edward Joseph. He was born in Boston, De- 
cember 10, 1890, and was educated at Boston College and 
Harvard. He is a member of the New England Poetry Club, 
The Poetry Society of America, and the American Drama 
League. 

O'Conor, Norreys Jephson. His poetical drama, The 
Fairy Bride, was produced in New York at a benefit per- 
formance for wounded Irish soldiers in the British Army, 
under the auspices of the British War Relief Association. 

Ogilvie, William Henry. He was Professor of Agricultu- 
ral Journalism in the Iowa State College, U.S.A., from 1905 
to 1907. At the beginning of the war he entered the Remount 
Department, but ill health prevented long service. Afterward 
he worked on the land, and was assigned to the Army Reserve 
in 1918. His war writings include Australia and Other Verses. 

Owen, Everard. He has served as Chaplain to a VA.D. 
Hospital at Bicester, England. His war poems appear in 
Three Hills, and Other Poems. 

Oxland, Nowell. He was born December 21, 1890, and 
was educated at Durham and at Worcester College, Oxford. 
He sailed for the Dardanelles July 30, 1915, and was killed at 
Suvla Bay, August 9. 

Pain, Barry. He served during the year 1915-16 in the 
A.A.C., R.N.V.R., on a Searchlight Station, and was after- 
ward appointed to the London Appeal Tribunal. 

Phillpotts, Eden. See First Series. 

Rawnsley, Rev. Hardwicke Drummond. See First 
Series. 

Rees, G. E. Rev. G. E. Rees is a Master of Arts (Oxon.). 
He was awarded the prize at the Welsh National Eisteddfod, 
1911, for his version of the Welsh National Anthem in English. 

Roberts, Cecil. He is Literary Editor of the Liverpool 
Post, and has served as Special Correspondent with the Grand 



334 OCCASIONAL NOTES 

Fleet, Dover Patrol, Milford Haven Convoy, and the Royal 
Air Force. During the war he acted as Administrator in the 
American Department of the British Ministry of Munitions. 
He is a Vice-President of the British Poetry Society, and the 
author of several volumes of poems. 

Roberts, Morley. He has published War Lyrics. 

Ross, Sir Ronald. See First Series. 

Sassoon, Siegfried. He was born in 1889, and was edu- 
cated at Marlborough, and at Christ Church, Oxford. He has 
fought in both France and Palestine. He is a Captain in the 
Royal Welsh Fusiliers, and has received the Military Cross. 
Counter- Attack, and Other Poems contains some of his war verse. 

Schauffler, Robert Haven. A well-known American 
poet who has served as First Lieutenant in the 313th In- 
fantry, American Expeditionary Force. 

Scollard, Clinton. See First Series. 

Scott, Duncan Campbell. He is Deputy Superintendent 
of Indian Affairs for the Dominion of Canada. He was born 
at Ottawa on August 2, 1862, is the author of several volumes 
of prose and verse, and is a member of the Canadian Society 
of Authors and of the Royal Society of Canada. 

Scott, Frederick George. He enlisted with the First 
Canadian Contingent in 1914, arrived in France in February, 
1915, and served as Senior Chaplain of the First Canadian 
Division, being present at every engagement in which the 
Division took part. In January, 1916, he was made a 
C.M.G., and in August, 1918, received the D.S.O. for services 
rendered during the Battle of Amiens. He is an Hon. Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel, and in civil life is Rector of St. Matthew's 
Church, Quebec. One of his sons was killed during the war, 
and two were wounded. Canon Scott was himself severely 
wounded during the Battle of Cambrai. His war poems ap- 
pear in In the Battle Silences. 

Seaman, Sir Owen. See First Series. 

Shakespeare, W. G. Captain Shakespeare, during most of 
the period of the war, was Medical Officer to the Seventeenth 
Lancers, and afterward served as a surgeon at a Base Hospi- 
tal. 

Shepard, Odell. He is Goodwin Professor of English at 
Trinity College, Hartford, Connecticut. Several of his war 
poems appear in his volume entitled A Lonely Flute. 



OCCASIONAL NOTES 335 

Sherman, Stuart P. He is Professor of English in the Uni- 
versity of Illinois. His pamphlet, American and Allied Ideals, 
has been widely read. In June, 1918, he read his Phi Beta 
Kappa poem, "Redemption," at Harvard University. 

Smith, C. Fox. She has written Fighting Men, a collection 
of her war poems published in 1916. 

Smith, Marion Couthouy. She is a member of the Vigi- 
lantes, the American Defence Society, and the American 
Rights League. Her war poems appear in the volume entitled 
The Final Star. 

Sorley, Charles Hamilton. See First Series. 

Tennant, Edward Wyndham. See First Series. 

Thayer, Sigotjrney. He served as a First Lieutenant in 
the Aviation Corps, U.S.A., and was on active service in 
France. 

Trotter, Bernard Freeman. He was born in Toronto, 
Canada, June 16, 1890. His father, the late Professor Thomas 
Trotter, D.D., of McMaster University, became President of 
Acadia University in 1895, and Bernard accordingly spent the 
next ten years of his young life in Nova Scotia. He was edu- 
cated at the Horton Collegiate Academy, Wolfville, N.S.; 
Woodstock College, Ontario; and McMaster University, 
which he entered in 1910, after spending three years in Cali- 
fornia for physical reasons. He received his BA. degree in 
1915, and, having already joined an Officers' Training Corps, 
made several efforts to obtain a commission, which, how- 
ever, he did not secure, on account of doubt concerning his 
full physical fitness, until after a course of training in Eng- 
land during 1916. He was attached to a Pioneer Battalion, 
and afterward was temporarily appointed Assistant Trans- 
port Officer. In this capacity he met death from shell fire 
May 7, 1917, and was buried in the Military Cemetery at 
Mazingarbe. His poems were published in 1917, under the 
title, A Canadian Twilight, and Other Poems of War and of 
Peace. 

Tynan, Katharine. Mrs. Katharine Tynan-Hinkson has 
published several volumes of war poems, including Flower of 
Youth, The Holy War, Late Songs, and Herb of Grace. She 
has done much nursing and other philanthropic work during 
the war, and has had two sons serving in Palestine and 
France, respectively. 



336 OCCASIONAL NOTES 

Van Dyke, Henry. See First Series. 

Warren, G. O. Her war poems appear in the volume en- 
titled Trackless Regions. Mrs. Fiske Warren is Secretary and 
Treasurer of the Belgian Refugees' Knitting Yarn Fund, 
which is the American Branch of the Chelsea War Refugees' 
Fund. She has rendered fruitful service in this regard since 
December, 1914. She resides in Harvard, Mass. 

Watson, Sir William. Since 1880 he has devoted himself 
to poetry. He was created a Knight in 1917. 

Wharton, Edith. See First Series. 

Wilson, Marjorie. She has published several war poems 
in British periodicals. Her war work has included service in 
the War Relief Office and V.A.D. nursing at Netley. 

Wilson, T. P. Cameron. He was born in South Devon, 
England, and was educated at Exeter, Clifton College, and 
Oxford. His literary bent soon became evident, and he fre- 
quently contributed to leading British periodicals, sometimes 
under the nom de plume "Tipuca." He produced one novel, 
The Friendly Enemy. At the outbreak of the war he was a 
master in Mount Arlington School, Hindhead, Surrey. His 
fine service on the Brigade Staff and in the Tenth Sherwood 
Foresters gained him a captaincy. He was killed in action, 
March 23, 1918, near Hermies, by a machine-gun bullet, 
dying almost instantly. The afternoon before he fell he 
crawled out into No Man's Land, and carried back one of 
his men who was lying on the wire entanglements. He was 
twenty-nine years old when he met his death. The Colonel 
of the Brigade Staff describes him as "a most gallant lad and 
charming companion. He dined with me the night before his 
battalion was ordered up, and I was very anxious about his 
safety when the fight started, — much more anxious, I am 
sure, than he was himself. . . . He would have had a great 
future." Captain Wilson was the second son of the Rev. T. 
Cameron Wilson, of the Vicarage, Little Eaton, Derby, and 
the brother of Miss Marjorie Wilson, whose work is also 
represented in this volume. "To Tony" (q.v.) is written in 
his memory. 

Wodehouse, E. Armine. In May, 1916, he obtained a com- 
mission in the Scots Guards. He was wounded on September 
15, 1916, during the Battle of the Somme. Since then, he 
has served in British Government Departments in London. 



OCCASIONAL NOTES 337 

His poems have been collected into a volume entitled On 
Leave. 

Woods, Margaret L. During 1916 and 1917 Mrs. Woods 
assisted in the work for refugees conducted by the Hostels 
Americains et Foyer Franco-Beige, presided over by Mrs. 
Edith Wharton. She then served with the Women's Emer- 
gency Canteens (Les Dames Anglaises) working for French 
soldiers at Compiegne. Late in 1918 she became Lecturer 
on English Literature in the British Government plan for the 
education of the Army behind the Lines. 

Young, E. Hilton. He served for a year with the British 
Grand Fleet as an extra private secretary to Admiral Jellicoe. 
He was then attached to Admiral Trowbridge's Mission to 
Serbia, and held a small independent command at Semendria, 
on the Danube, when it was overwhelmed by the German 
invasion. His gallant conduct there gained him the Serbian 
War Medal "For Valour." Thereafter he assisted in the 
transference of the remaining Serbian Army from San Gio- 
vanni di Medua, and received the Order of Kara George (with 
swords) for his service to Serbia. After serving with Admiral 
Tyrwhitt in the Channel, he was appointed to a Naval Siege 
Gun Battery at Nieuport les Bains, Flanders, and was 
awarded the Croix de Guerre and Distinguished Service 
Cross. During the assault on Zeebrugge he was Second Lieu- 
tenant of the Vindictive, and received wounds which caused 
the loss of his right arm. He was promoted to be Lieutenant 
Commander, and was assigned to further duty on the Mur- 
mansk Coast of North Russia. He is a Member of Parliament 
for the City of Norwich. 



INDEXES 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

A childhood land of mountain ways 102 

A few clouds float across the grand blue sky 223 

A little flock of clouds go down to rest 171 

A loft with a ruckle of twisted rafters where the blue sky 

shows through the splintered tiles 191 

A slope of summer sprinkled over 256 

A year ago in Carnival 164 

After the war — I hear men ask — what then? 320 

All night in a cottage far 112 

All the thin shadows 57 

And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks. . 116 

Another land has crashed into the deep 59 

As I was walking with my dear, my dear came back at 

last 97 

As I went walking up and down 90 

Bees hummed and rooks called hoarsely outside the quiet 

room 290 

Before, before he was aware 182 

Blossoms as old as May I scatter here 170 

Captains adventurous, from your ports of quiet 251 

City of stark desolation 75 

Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest 169 

Destiny knocked at the door 11 

Dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom 186 

Ended the watches of the dark; oh hear the bugles blow 322 

Far up at Glorian the wind is sighing 218 

Farewell! the village leaning to the hill 193 

Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to the glen 29 

Fate wafts us from the pygmies' shore 100 

Fool that I was! my heart was sore 265 

For France and liberty he set apart 110 



342 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

For peace, than knowledge more desirable 103 

France is planting her gardens 45 

From hedgerows where aromas fain would be 138 

From its blue vase the rose of evening drops 21 

From out the dragging vastness of the sea 266 

Gemmed with white daisies was the great green world. . 298 

Ghostly ships in a ghostly sea 242 

God dreamed a man 132 

God, I am travelling out to death's sea 275 

Gone is the spire that slept for centuries 39 

Grave hour and solemn choice — brave is the sword ... 4 

Grey field of Flanders, grim old battle plain 78 

Had I that fabled herb 235 

Hark! 'T is the rush of the horses 143 

He is blind and nevermore 266 

He limps along the city street 268 

He that has left hereunder 273 

He was a boy of April beauty; one 276 

Her boys are not shut out. They come 307 

Here in the marshland, past the battered bridge ....... 275 

His mother bids him go without a tear 163 

Hope and mirth are gone. Beauty is departed 217 

How should we praise those lads of the old Vindictive . . . 232 

I am only a cog in a giant machine, a link of an endless 

chain 210 

I dream that on far heaven's steep . : 278 

I dreamed that overhead 277 

I feared the lonely dead, so old were they 291 

I, from a window where the Meuse is wide 45 

I had no heart to march for war 137 

I have not brought my Odyssey 175 

1 have not wept when 1 have seen 219 

I met with Death in his country 174 

I saw the Connaught Rangers when they were passing 

by 34 

I see you sitting in the sungleams there 63 

I too remember distant golden days 196 

I 've seen them in the morning light 222 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 343 

If courage thrives on reeking slaughter 95 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 274 

In our hill-country of the North 208 

In Paris Town, in Paris Town — 't was 'neath an April 

sky 149 

In that Valhalla where the heroes go 41 

In the burgh town of Arras 27 

In the midnight, in the rain 146 

In the place to which I go 302 

In the sheltered garden, pale beneath the moon 312 

In winds that leave man's spirit cold 3 

Iscariot, never more thy stricken name 125 

It's Autumn-time on Salisbury Plain 225 

It was nearly twelve o'clock by the sergeant's watch . . . 204 
It was sad weather when you went away 314 

Lean brown lords of the Brisbane beaches 70 

Light green of grass and richer green of bush 98 

Lightly she slept, that splendid mother of mine 311 

Lord, how can he be dead? 314 

Lords of the seas' great wilderness 250 

Magna Carta! Magna Carta! 9 

Make this thing plain to us, O Lord 319 

Nearer and ever nearer 185 

Never of us be said 133 

Not the muffled drums for him 285 

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour 1 69 
Now is the time of the splendour of Youth and Death . 13 
Now to those who search the deep 231 

O, a lush green English meadow — it 's there that I would 

He 216 

O grim and iron-bastioned 240 

O guns, fall silent, till the dead men hear 274 

O mountains of Erin 33 

O noble youth that held our honour in keeping 294 

O shards of walls that once held precious life 46 

O take away the mistletoe 134 

O turn ye homeward in the night-tide dusk! 30 



344 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Often, on afternoons gray and sombre 89 

Oh, Grimsby is a pleasant town as any man may find. . 245 

Oh hear! Oh hear! 237 

Oh, hump your swag and leave, lads, the ships are in the 

bay 69 

Old orchard crofts of Picardy 161 

On this primeval strip of western land 247 

Once, in my moment of earth 224 

Once more the Night like some great dark drop-scene.. 197 

Only a man harrowing clods 95 

Orion swung southward aslant 287 

Out here the dogs of war run loose 158 

Out of the flame-scarred night one came to me 291 

Out of the smoke of men's wrath 189 

Over the shallow, angry English Channel 164 

Over the warring waters, beneath the wandering skies. . 234 

Paradise now has many a Knight 301 

Past happiness dissolves. It fades away 279 

Peace, battle-worn and starved, and gaunt and pale . . . 319 

Pinks and syringa in the garden closes 166 

Ruins of trees whose woeful arms 82 

Saint George he was a fighting man, as all the tales do 

tell 21 

Sainte Jeanne went harvesting in France 49 

Samothrace and Imbros lie 71 

Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake 187 

She goes all so softly 311 

She kissed me when she said good-bye 214 

She turned the page of wounds and death 310 

Sleep well, heroic souls, in silence sleep 288 

Soldier of England* you who served her well 284 

Something sings gently through the din of battle. ..... 313 

"Somewhere in France" — we know not where — he 

lies 297 

Somewhere lost in the haze 172 

Somewhere, O sun, some corner there must be 109 

Speed without ruth, seedsman of vile success 138 

Spring is God's season; may you see His Spring 294 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 345 

Standing on the fire-step 144 

Surely the Keeper of the House of Death 290 

'T is midnight, and above the hollow trench 218 

Tecumseh of the Shawnees 63 

The battle-smoke still fouled the day 269 

The bugler sent a call of high romance 193 

The City of God is late become a seaport town 241 

The day closed in a wrath of cloud. The gale 243 

The dead are with us everywhere 292 

The firefly haunts were lighted yet 195 

The great guns of England, they listen mile on mile .... 173 
The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young 

and careless feet 180 

The King have called the Devon lads, and they be an- 
swering fine 308 

The Kings go by with jewelled crowns 139 

The Kings of the earth are men of might 181 

The lamplight's shaded rose 310 

The magpies in Picardy 188 

The moon swims in milkiness 190 

The night is still and the air is keen 194 

The sacred Head was bound and diapered 77 

The sheep are coming home in Greece 58 

The skippers and the mates, they know! 238 

The summer meads are fair with daisy-snow 119 

The thorns were blooming red and white 148 

The toy no skilful fingers may repair 40 

The visions of the soul, more strange than dreams 119 

The world hath its own dead; great motions start 286 

Their great gray ships go plunging forth 5 

There is a fold of lion-coloured earth 145 

There is no joy in life 98 

There is no wrath in the stars 171 

There's a waterfall I'm leaving 248 

There 's a woman sobs her heart out 305 

There's mist in the hollows 106 

There where he sits in the cold, in the gloom 127 

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground . 135 
They dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought and 
who died out there 289 



346 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

They had so much to lose; their radiant laughter 91 

They left the fury of the fight 292 

They say the blue kirg jays have flown 105 

They shall come back through Heaven's bars 299 

They stand with reverent faces 295 

They swing across the screen in brave array 165 

"This day is holy" — so sweet Spenser wrote 12 

This will I do when we have peace again. 178 

Thou art the world's desired, the golden fleece 53 

Thou little voice! Thou happy sprite 198 

Thou that a brave brief space didst keep the gate 39 

Though we, a happy few 283 

Through the great doors, where Paris flowed incessant . 110 

Through what dark pass to what place in the sun 126 

To fill the gap, to bear the brunt 20 

To-day the sun shines bright 202 

To-night I drifted to the restaurant 159 

Tossed like a falcon from the hunter's wrist 259 

Tower of Ypres that watchest, gravely smiling 125 

Troops to our England true 19 

War laid bugle to his lips, blew one blast — and then. . 124 
We are the guns, and your masters! Saw ye our flashes? 212 

We are weary and silent 190 

We had forgotten You — or very nearly 108 

We laid him to rest with tenderness 281 

We talked together in the days gone by 296 

We who are left, how shall we look again 273 

What alters you, familiar lawn and tower 87 

What gods have met in battle to arouse. 129 

What high adventure, in what world afar 260 

What legend of a star that fell 136 

Whatever penman wrote or orator 3 

When England's king put English to the horn 9 

When it is finished, Father, and we set 321 

When the heroic deeds that mark our time 57 

When the long gray lines came flooding upon Paris in the 

plain 150 

When wars are done 122 

When you see millions of the mouthless dead 277 

Who would remember me were I to die 224 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 347 

Wingless Victory, whose shrine 255 

With folded hands beside the fire 306 

Within the town of Buffalo 114 

Woman of the field, — by the sunset furrow 311 

Yon poisonous clod 199 

You fell; and on a distant field, shell-shatter' d . . . . V . . . 280 

You seemed so young, to know 123 

You who have seen across the star-decked skies 261 

Your face was lifted to the golden sky 281 



INDEX OF TITLES 

(The titles of sections are set in small capitals) 

Advance, America! John Helston 3 

After Action Robert Haven Schauffler 224 

After Jutland Katharine Tynan 241 

After the War Richard Le Gallienne 320 

Airmen, The 253 

America 17 

America, To Morley Roberts 3 

America at St. Paul's Margaretta Byrde 11 

America in War Time, To 0. W. Firkins 4 

Ammunition Column Gilbert Frankau 210 

Anxious Dead, The John McCrae 274 

Apocalypse Ronald Ross 119 

Army of the Dead, The Barry Pain 277 

At Parting Katharine Tynan 314 

At the Movies Florence Ripley Mastin 165 

Australasia 67 

Autumn Evening in Serbia Francis Ledwidge 57 

Auxiliary Cruiser, The N.M.F. Corbett 243 

Back to London: A Poem of Leave Joseph Lee 219 

Ballad of St. Barbara, The .... Gilbert Keith Chesterton 150 

Ballade of Broken Things, A Blanche Weitbrec 40 

Battle of the Bight, The William Watson 235 

Battle Sleep Edith Wharton 109 

Before Ginchy E. Armine Wodehouse 199 

Before Marching, and After Thomas Hardy 287 

Before the Charge Patrick MacGill 194 

Belgium 37 

Belgium, To Helen Gray Cone 39 

Bois-Etoile Ethel M. Hewitt 136 

Brooke, Rupert Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 281 

Brooke, Rupert, To Eden Phillpotts 283 

Bugler, The F.W. Harvey 132 



350 INDEX OF TITLES 

Call, The F.W. Bourdillon 143 

Call to Arms in Our Street, The .... Winifred M. Letts 305 

Canada 61 

Canadian Aviator who died for his Country in France, 

To a Duncan Campbell Scott 259 

Canadian Lad, Killed in the War, To a 

Duncan Campbell Scott 294 

Captain Guynemer Florence Earle Coates 260 

Captains Adventurous Norah M. Holland 251 

Cathedral, The William G. Shakespeare 217 

Cavell, Edith George Edivard Woodberry 286 

Channel Sunset John Gould Fletcher 164 

Chivalry of the Sea, The Robert Bridges 234 

Choice, The John Masefield 139 

Christ in Flanders L.W. 108 

Clean Hands Austin Dobson 319 

Comrades: An Episode Robert Nichols 182 

Confession of Faith, A James Sprent 224 

Connaught Rangers, The Winifred M. Letts 34 

Convalescence Amy Lowell 266 

Dead, The A. E. Murray 292 

Dead, The Charles Hamilton Sorley 277 

Dead, The Sigourney Thayer 291 

Dead Man's Cottage J.H. Knight-Adhin 191 

Despotisms Louise Imogen Guiney 138 

Destroyers Henry Head 247 

Devonshire Mother, The Marjorie Wilson 308 

Dog, To a John Jay Chapman 279 

Easter at Ypres: 1915 W. S. S. Lyon 77 

Endless Army, The G.O. Warren 306 

England 17 

England and America 7 

Evening Clouds Francis Ledwidge 171 

Evening in England Francis Ledwidge 21 

Expeditional C.W. Brodribb 19 

Face, The Frederic Manning 189 

Fallen W. Kersley Holmes 296 

Fallen, The 271 



INDEX OF TITLES 351 

Fallen, To the Claude Houghton 291 

Farewell to Anzac C. Fox Smith 69 

Finger and a Huge, Thick Thumb, A 

James Norman Hall 204 

First Battle of Ypres, The Margaret L. Woods 78 

Flanders Fields, In John McCrae 274 

Flemish Village, A Herbert Asquith 39 

Flower-Beds in the Tuileries .... Grace Ellery Channing 45 

For Francis Ledwidge Norreys Jephson 0' Conor 280 

Fourth of July, 1776, The Maurice Hewlett 9 

France 43 

From a Trench Maud Anna Bell 158 

Front Line William Rose Benet 144 

Fulfilment G. 0. Warren 122 

Gallipoli, In Eden Phillpotts 145 

Gassed Rowland Thirlmere 266 

Gervais Margaret Adelaide Wilson 290 

Ghosts of Oxford, The W. Snow 90 

Ginchy, Before E. Armine Wodehouse 199 

God's Hills 

William Noel Hodgson {"Edward Melbourne") 208 

Gods of War A. E. 100 

Going to the Front.. . .Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley 137 

Greatham, Of John Drinkwater 103 

Grey Knitting Katherine Hale 313 

Guns in Sussex, The Arthur Conan Doyle 98 

Guynemer, Captain Florence Earle Coates 260 

Harrow Grave in Flanders, A . . The Marquess of Crewe 215 

Heart-Cry, The F.W. Bourdillon 310 

Heligoland, OflF J. Edgar Middleton 242 

Henri George Sterling 159 

Hereafter Ronald Lewis Carton 225 

Heroes, The M. Forrest 41 

Hie Jacet qui in Hoc Saeculo Fideliter Militavit 

Henry Newbolt 273 

Hidden Weaver, The Odell Shepard 127 

High Summer Katharine Tynan 166 

Highland Night Isabel Westcott Harper 30 

Homecoming of the Sheep, The Francis Ledwidge 58 



352 INDEX OF TITLES 

Homes Margaret Widdemer 310 

Horse-Bathing Parade W. Kersley Holmes 223 

House of Death, The A. T. Nankivell 290 

In Flanders Fields John McCrae 274 

In Gallipoli Eden Phillpotts 145 

In the Morning Patrick MacGill 195 

In Time of "the Breaking of Nations" . Thomas Hardy 95 

Incidents and Aspects. 141 

Infantry Patrick R. Chalmers 149 

Invalided Edward Shillito 268 

Ireland 31 

"It will be a Hard Winter" Olive Tilford Dargan 105 

Italy 51 

Italy, To Moray Dalton 53 

Jutland, After Katharine Tynan 241 

Kaiser and Counsellor Stuart P. Sherman 126 

Keeping the Seas 229 

Kings Joyce Kilmer 181 

Kiss, A Bernard Freeman Trotter 214 

Kitchener, Field-Marshal Earl, To the Memory of 

Owen Seaman 284 

Kitchener's March Amelia Josephine Burr 285 

Lament Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 273 

Last Hero, The A. E. 281 

Last Post, The Robert Graves 193 

Last Rally, The John Gould Fletcher 146 

Ledwidge, Francis, For Norreys Jephson 0' Conor 280 

Letter from the Trenches, A . . Charles Hamilton Sorley 175 

Letter to an Aviator in France . Grace Hazard Conkling 256 

Light after Darkness E. Wyndham Tennant 197 

Lines written in a Fire-Trench W. S. S. Lyon 218 

"Lochaber No More!" Neil Munro 29 

Lost Land, A Kathleen Knox 102 

Magna Carta Percy MacKaye 9 

Magpies in Picardy T. P. Cameron Wilson 188 

Memories E. Hilton Young 218 



INDEX OF TITLES 353 



Merchantmen, The Morley Roberts 238 

Military Necessity Josephine Preston Peabody 125 

Missing Beatrice W. Ravenel 314 

Moira's Keening Norreys Jephson O'Conor 33 

Mother, The Katharine Tynan 307 

Mother and Mate Gilbert Frankau 311 

My Brother, To Miles Jeffrey Game Day 178 

My Godson, To Mildred Huxley 299 

My Pupils, gone before their Day, To Guy Kendall 123 

Napoleon Gamaliel Bradford 110 

Napoleon's Tomb Dana Burnet 110 

Nearer Robert Nichols 185 

New Ally, The Harry Kemp 5 

New Heaven Katharine Tynan 301 

New School, The Joyce Kilmer 180 

New World, The Laurence Binyon 13 

New Zealander, The Ben Kendim 71 

Next Morning E. Armine Wodehouse 202 

Niagara Vachel Lindsay 114 

Non-Combatants Evelyn Underhill 133 

North Sea Ground, The C. Fox Smith 245 

Of Greatham John Drinkwater 103 

Off Heligoland J. Edgar Middleton 242 

Old War Arthur L. Phelps 63 

On a Troopship, 1915 Herbert Asquith 193 

Outward Bound Nowell Oxland 248 

Oxford 85 

Oxford in War-Time Laurence Binyon 87 

Oxford Men in the War, To the Christopher Morley 89 

Peace 317 

Peace Rupert Brooke 169 

Peace G. 0. Warren 319 

Peaceful Warrior, The Henry van Dyke 98 

Pierrot at War Maxwell Struthers Burt 164 

Pierrot goes to War Gabrielle Elliot 312 

Pipes in Arras Neil Munro 27 

Place, The Francis Ledwidge 170 

Poets Militant 167 

Poplars, The Bernard Freeman Trotter 216 



354 INDEX OF TITLES 

Queenslanders Will H. Ogilvie 70 

Ragged Stone, The Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 97 

Recruit, The Isabel Ecclestone Mackay 163 

Red Christmas, The .W. H. Draper 134 

Red Cross Nurse, The Edith M. Thomas 269 

Red Poppies in the Corn W. Campbell Galbraith 219 

Reflections 93 

Reincarnation E. Wyndham Tennant 196 

Relieved Frederic Manning 190 

Reveille Ronald Lewis Carton 302 

Reveille Eden Phillpotts 322 

Richmond Park Rowland Thirlmere 148 

Riddles, R.F.C John Drinkwater 276 

Romance Neil Munro 161 

Roumania George Edward Woodberry 59 

Ruins George Herbert Clarke 82 

Safety Rupert Brooke 169 

St. Barbara, The Ballad of ... . Gilbert Keith Chesterton 150 

Saint George of England C. Fox Smith 21 

St. George's Day Henry Newbolt 20 

Sainte Jeanne of France Marion Couthouy Smith 49 

Scotland 25 

Searchlights Paul Bewsher 261 

Sedan Hilaire Belloc 45 

Seed-Time Josephine Preston Peabody 311 

Serbia Florence Earle Coates 57 

Serbia, Greece, and Roumania 55 

Shadows and Lights '. . .A. E. 129 

Silent Toast, The Frederick George Scott 295 

Skylark behind our Trenches, To a . . . Edward de Stein 198 

Soldier Speaks, The John Galsworthy 95 

Some who have Fallen, To Moray Dalton 294 

"Somewhere in France" John Hogben 297 

Song Edward J. O'Brien 311 

Song of the Guns at Sea, The Henry Newbolt 237 

Songs from an Evil Wood Lord Dunsany 171 

Spectral Army, The .....G.O. Warren 278 

Sportsmen in Paradise T. P. Cameron Wilson 292 

Stars in their Courses, The John Freeman 116 



INDEX OF TITLES 355 

Steeple, The Patrick R. Chalmers 106 

Subalterns Mildred Huxley 91 

Summer Morning, A Clinton Scollard 119 

Telling the Bees G. E. Rees 289 

The Soldier Speaks John Galsworthy 95 

"There will Come Soft Rains" Sara Teasdale 135 

"These shall Prevail" Theodosia Garrison 124 

To a Canadian Aviator who died for his Country in 

France Duncan Campbell Scott 259 

To a Canadian Lad, Killed in the War 

Duncan Campbell Scott 294 

To a Dog John Jay Chapman 279 

To a Skylark behind Our Trenches . . . Edward de Stein 198 

To America Morley Roberts 3 

To America in War Time O.W. Firkins 4 

To Belgium Helen Gray Cone 39 

To Italy Moray Dalton 53 

To My Brother Miles Jeffrey Game Day 178 

To My Godson Mildred Huxley 299 

To My Pupils, Gone before Their Day. . . . Guy Kendall 123 

To Our Dead W.L. Courtney 288 

To Rupert Brooke Eden Phillpotts 283 

To Some who have Fallen Moray Dalton 294 

To the Fallen Claude Houghton 291 

To the Memory of Field-Marshal Earl Kitchener 

Owen Seaman 284 

To the Oxford Men in the War. . . .Christopher Morley 89 

To the Wingless Victory .... George Edward Woodberry 255 

To Tony (Aged 3) Marjorie Wilson 298 

Trafalgar Square Robert Bridges 265 

Transport Frederic Manning 190 

Trench Duty Siegfried Sassoon 187 

Troops, The Siegfried Sassoon 186 

Two Flags upon Westminster Towers 

Robert Underwood Johnson 12 

Valley of the Shadow John Galsworthy 275 

Valleys of the Blue Shrouds, The John Finley 46 

"Vindictive, The" Alfred Noyes 232 

Vision of Spring, The, 1916 H.H. Bashford 112 

Voice of the Guns, The Gilbert Frankau 212 



356 INDEX OF TITLES 

War Cry of the Eagles, The Bliss Carman 63 

Watchmen of the Night Cecil Roberts 250 

When it is Finished Marjorie L. C. Pickthall 321 

Where Kitchener Sleeps Wilfred Campbell 240 

Wingless Victory, To the George Edward Woodberry 155 

Wireless Alfred Noyes 231 

Women and the War 303 

Wounded, The - 263 

Ypres 73 

Ypres Lord Gorell 75 

Ypres Tower, Rye Everard Owen 125 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 

A. E 100, 129, 281 

Asquith, Herbert 39, 193 

Barnes, R. Gorell. See Gorell, Lord 

Bashford, H. H 112 

Bell, Maud Anna 158 

Belloc, Hilaire 45 

Benet, William Rose 144 

Bewsher, Paul 261 

Binyon, Laurence 13, 87 

Bourdillon, F. W 143, 310 

Bradford, Gamaliel 110 

Bridges, Robert 234, 265 

Brodribb, C. W 19 

Brooke, Rupert 169 (2) 

Burnet, Dana 110 

Burr, Amelia Josephine 285 

Burt, Maxwell Struthers 164 

Byrde, Margaretta 11 

Campbell, Wilfred 240 

Carman, Bliss 63 

Carton, Ronald Lewis 225, 302 

Chalmers, Patrick R 106, 149 

Channing, Grace Ellery 45 

Chapman, John Jay 279 

Chesterton, Gilbert Keith 150 

Clarke, George Herbert 82 

Coates, Florence Earle 57, 260 

Cone, Helen Gray 39 

Conkling, Grace Hazard 256 

Corbett, N. M. F 243 

Courtney, W. L 288 

Crewe, The Marquess of 275 

Dalton, Moray 53, 294 

Dargan, Olive Tilford 105 



358 INDEX OF AUTHORS 

Day, Miles Jeffrey Game 178 

De Stein, Edward 198 

Dobson, Austin 319 

Doyle, Arthur Conan 98 

Draper, W. H 134 

Drlnkwater, John 103, 276 

Dunsany, Lord 171 

E., A 100, 129, 281 

Elliot, Gabrielle 312 

Finley, John 46 

Firkins, O. W 4 

Fletcher, John Gould 146, 164 

Forrest, M 41 

Fox Smith, C 21, 69, 245 

Frankau, Gilbert 210, 212, 311 

Freeman, John 116 

Galbraith, W. Campbell 222 

Galsworthy, John 95, 275 

Garrison, Theodosia '. 124 

Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson 97, 273, 281 

Gorell, Lord 75 

Graves, Robert 193 

Gutney, Louise Imogen 138 

Hale, Katherine 313 

Hall, James Norman 204 

Hardy, Thomas 95, 287 

Harper, Isabel Westcott 30 

Harvey, F. W 132 

Head, Henry 247 

Helston, John 3 

Hewitt, Ethel M 136 

Hewlett, Maurice 9 

Hodgson, William Noel ("Edward Melbourne")- • • • 208 

Hogben, John 297 

Holland, Norah M 251 

Holmes, W. Kersley 223, 296 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 359 

Houghton, Claude 291 

Huxley, Mildred 91, 299 

Johnson, Robert Underwood 12 

Kemp, Harry 5 

Kendall, Guy 123 

Kendim, Ben 71 

Kilmer, Joyce 180, 181 

Knight-Adkin, James H. , 191 

Knox, Kathleen 102 

L.W 108 

Ledwidge, Francis 21, 57, 58, 170, 171 

Lee, Joseph 219 

Le Gallienne, Richard 320 

Letts, Winifred M 34, 305 

Lindsay, Vachel 114 

Lowell, Amy 266 

Lyon, W. S. S 77, 218 

McCrae, John 274 (2) 

MacGill, Patrick 194, 195 

Mackay, Isabel Ecclestone 163 

MacKaye, Percy 9 

Manning, Frederic 189, 190 (2) 

Masefield, John 139 

Mastin, Florence Ripley 165 

"Melbourne, Edward" (W. N. Hodgson) 208 

Middleton, J. Edgar 242 

Morley, Christopher 89 

Munro, Neil 27, 29, 161 

Murray, A. E 292 

Nankivell, A. T 290 

Newbolt, Henry 20, 237, 273 

Nichols, Robert 182, 185 

Noyes, Alfred 231, 232 

O'Brien, Edward J 311 

O'Conor, Norreys Jephson 33, 280 



360 INDEX OF AUTHORS 

Qgilvie, Will H 70 

Owen, Everard 125 

oxland, nowell 248 

Pain, Barry 277 

Peabody, Josephine Preston 125, 311 

Phelps, Arthur L 63 

Phillpotts, Eden 145, 283, 322 

PlCKTHALL, MaRJORIE L. C 231 

Ravenel, Beatrice W 314 

Rawnsley, Hardwicke Drummond 137 

Rees, G. E 289 

Roberts, Cecil 250 

Roberts, Morley 3, 238 

Ross, Ronald 119 

Russell, George W. See A. E. 

Sassoon, Siegfried 186, 187 

Schauffler, Robert Haven 224 

Scollard, Clinton 119 

Scott, Duncan Campbell 259, 294 

Scott, Frederick George 295 

Seaman, Owen 284 

Shakespeare, William G 217 

Shepard, Odell , 127 

" Sherman, Stuart P , 126 

Shillito, Edward 268 

Smith, C. Fox 21, 69, 245 

Smith, Marion Couthouy 49 

Snow, W 90 

Sorley, Charles Hamilton 175, 277 

Sprent, James 224 

Sterling, George 159 

Teasdale, Sara 135 

Tennant, E. Wyndham 196, 197 

Thayer, Sigourney 291 

Thirlmere, Rowland 148, 266 

Thomas, Edith M 269 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 361 

Trotter, Bernard Freeman 214, 216 

Tynan, Katharine 166, 241, 301, 307, 314 

Underhill, Evelyn 133 

Van Dyke, Henry f . . . 98 

W., L 108 

Warren, G. O 122, 278, 306, 319 

Watson, William 235 

Weitbrec, Blanche 40 

Wharton, Edith 109 

Widdemer, Margaret 310 

Wilson, Margaret Adelaide 290 

Wilson, Marjorie 298, 308 

Wilson, T. P. Cameron 188, 292 

Wodehouse, E. Armine 199, 202 

Woodberry, George Edward 59, 255, 286 

Woods, Margaret L 78 

Young, E. Hilton 218 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



